


Dirty Deeds

by BoStarsky



Series: Assorted Kylux [22]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A whole lot of anxiety, Angst with a Happy Ending, Good Guy mafia they have feelings, Hitman Kylo, I promise, Idiots in Love, Kylo your gay is showing, M/M, Mafia AU, Mental Illness, Mild torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reaper Hux, They meet, but I’d hesitate to call it cute, dead bodies, gratuitous hair braiding, lots of death in general, meet cute?, not a dark as it sounds, they deal in hugs and adopting stray veterans, unconventional dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:31:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoStarsky/pseuds/BoStarsky
Summary: When Kylo was a kid he always imagined himself growing up to become a rock star or maybe an ace pilot like the guys in Top Gun. He had many fantasies about his grown up self, all of them heroic in some way. Not a single one of them involved producing dead bodies for the mafia. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he’d become a scarred, ex-marine bumping off rival gang members for 30k a head, nor did he think he'd ever become a made man with one of the oldest crime families in Chicago, and all of it by accident.All because of him.Because of Hux.





	1. Sign Here, Please

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are at last, I’m one and half chapters away from finishing this fic so I figured it was safe to start posting. It’s been a lot of hard work and so far the longest thing I’ve ever written, I’m quite pleased with that. Thank you to everyone who’s supported and cheered me on!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @BoStarsky

When Kylo was a kid he always imagined himself growing up to become a rock star or maybe an ace pilot like the guys in Top Gun. He had many fantasies about his grown up self, all of them heroic in some way. Not a single one of them involved producing dead bodies for the mafia. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine he’d become a scarred, ex-marine bumping off rival gang members for 30k a head, nor did he think he'd ever become a made man with one of the oldest crime families in Chicago, and all of it by accident.

All because of him.

Because of Hux. 

—

Living on army pension is about as far from the lap of luxury you can get so when someone tries to mug you you’re willing to die for the two dollars you have left. Every sensible part of him went out the window when some entitled white boy trying to be “gangsta”, lurking in an alley like a cliche, pulled a knife on him. There are a few times in life when things just happen, things that change your course alarmingly fast, this was one of those moments. This is where Hux stepped into his life. 

Standing over the body of his would be mugger, blood on his hands and no memory of what happened, the last thing he expected to see was the most beautiful creature in the world. Tall, slim and dressed to kill in an old cavalry uniform, he emerged from the darkness, but what really struck him about the figure was the scythe. The polished, black wood supporting a gleaming blade etched with runes. Kylo has never been one to believe in the supernatural, but if this is the grim reaper, he’s ready to believe in anything. 

“Let me guess, an accident?” His melodic voice is filled with biting sarcasm, piercing, pale green eyes regard him with impatience. 

“Uh,” is the most Kylo can manage, the reaper raises an unimpressed brow at him. “It was my last two dollars.” He blurts when those haunting eyes leave him to survey the scene. 

He scoffs, “You mortals and your money.” The grim reaper may be pretty, but he sure is an asshole. “Sign this.” A clipboard is shoved into his chest with more force than strictly necessary. 

Fucking paperwork? A form is clipped to the board, yellowed parchment stiff under his fingers as he traces the elegant cursive. Half of it is a birth certificate, he realises, for a Tristen Lane born in 95. Even his name sounds awful. There is another name on the form that’s much more interesting, namely the reaper at the scene; Armitage Hux. 

He’s been too caught up in staring at the form to actually sign it, finding the intended spot is easy enough. Cause of death, a neatly filled in, stabbed with switchblade, Responsible party, Kylo scribbles his name on the dotted line with the fountain pen dangling from a chain on the board, a little smudge of blood from his hand smeared underneath. 

“You won’t remember this.” Hux snatches the clipboard back, giving him an annoyed glance when he spots the blood. 

“No,” Hux turns back to him at the outburst, “I want to remember, please.” Those cold eyes regard him carefully. 

“Very well,” he replies eventually, “but don’t come running to me when you lose your mind over it.” The reaper smirks, showing off his sharp canines, a shiver runs down Kylo’s spine. What the hell has he just doomed himself to. 

The runes on Hux’s scythe glow ominously as he swipes it across Tristen’s body, separating his soul, from the looks of it. For some it might be more interesting watching a soul get reaped, but all of Kylo’s attention stays on Hux and how his pale, nearly translucent skin glows in the glare of the street lamps. The curve of his sharp cheekbones, the flaming, red hair, shiny and slicked back. He’d like nothing more than to peel off his jet black uniform and kiss bruises into that white skin. 

“Can I buy you a coffee, or something?” When Hux looks at him this time he’s more surprised than condescending, studying Kylo for a long time. 

Kylo squirms under the heavy gaze despite his best efforts to seem confident. “This is a first,” Hux drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, scythe glinting dangerously. “Why?”

“Why not?” Kylo shoots back, Hux smirks again. 

“Fine,” holy shit, how did that actually pay off? He’s got a date with the grim reaper, the actual grim reaper. “But wash your hands first.” Right, in lieu of a sink or even water, he scrubs of as much of the blood as he can with his t-shirt, zipping up his jacket to cover the stain. Hux rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets go of his scythe that evaporates into smoke as soon as Hux is no longer in contact with it. 

If he remembers correctly there should be a diner a few streets over, it’s not exactly Starbucks, but it’s all he can afford. He’ll have to beg some money off of his parents tomorrow, it’s embarrassing to admit how much he’s struggling, but he’s happy to spend the last of his money on Hux. 

The waitress behind the counter eyes them suspiciously, working in a place like this he’s sure she’s seen her fair share of strange customers at odd hours. They make a strange, contrasting pair, but they won’t cause trouble. He tries to convey this best as he can when she comes to take their order, smiling politely, but with caution in her dark eyes. 

The place is almost empty, a few unsavoury characters lounging in the booths and a tired looking woman sitting at the counter, broken people, Kylo feels right at home. Broken is exactly what he is, broken enough to ask the grim reaper on a date. Hux looks unimpressed, perched on the very edge of his seat like he’s afraid to touch anything, Kylo doesn’t blame him. With a decorated uniform like that it’s obvious the reaper is used to finer things, not vaguely sticky diners at three am. Seeing him like that makes Kylo feel guilty about his lack of money, all the things he’d like to give to this creature that are so far out of reach, he’d have to save up for months just to buy him a decent meal at a restaurant where they won’t risk food poisoning. Can Hux even get food poisoning? Would be just his luck if Kylo managed to poison himself and died while on a date with the grim reaper.

What does it matter anyway? After this Hux will be gone, returned to wherever he came from. He doubts Hux would want to go out with him again anyway, not when he knows what to expect, the fact that Kylo was willing to kill someone over two dollars says more than enough. 

The coffee is decent enough, strong and lukewarm, obviously the last dregs in the pot. Hux takes a sip and scowls at his chipped mug, Kylo dips his head, blushing with shame. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not great.” He mumbles into his chest. 

“It’s poison.” Hux sneers, but takes another sip all the same, something in his eyes that Kylo can’t quite put his finger on. “If you want to kill me too, you’ll have to try harder.” Did he just? It was a deadpan delivery, his face statuesque and free of emotion, but that was a joke, Kylo is sure of it. The grim reaper just made a joke to make him feel better about his poverty. How surreal. 

“Where do they go after you, uh…,” He makes a swiping motion with his hand trying to imitate what Hux had done earlier. 

“That’s not my division,” Hux’s gives him a withering stare, it’s probably not the first time he’s been asked that question. “I just harvest the souls, where they go is none of my concern. If you want to know what happens after you die I’m the wrong person to ask.” He takes a big sip of his coffee only to immediately grimace when he’s reminded of the flavour. 

“Sorry I asked,” Kylo mutters into his own mug, looking anywhere, but at Hux until his eyes catch on the last slice of pie left in the display case at the counter. His stomach growls forlornly. 

“You apologise too much, it’s not your fault mortals are stupid.” A single, copper brow climbs up the reapers forehead when Kylo’s stomach gurgles loud enough to be heard. 

“Sorry.” Kylo absently picks at a napkin, staring at the dried blood hiding in the creases of his hands. Hux sighs before getting out of the booth. Great, he’s managed to drive away the grim reaper, fucking fantastic.

Just as he’s about to accept the rejection and leave too a plate slides into view, a slice of peach pie with a heap of whipped cream looking like a meal fit for a king to his empty stomach. Hux slides back into the booth, old vinyl creaking under his weight. 

“Eat it before you starve, I’m on my break.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

The pie is better than the coffee, heavenly in fact, must be why this diner is still in business. Hux stares amusedly while Kylo polishes off his plate in a flash, eating like he expects someone to take his food away. He’s still hungry when the pie is gone, but the world looks a little brighter now that he can manage another day before he has to beg someone for money. He simply can’t stand the pity in his mother’s voice when he has to fess up and ask her to wire him twenty bucks, trying his best to make himself seem less poor than he actually is. Leia knows though, the next day there’s always a thousand dollars in his account. He doesn’t want it, but he’s too desperate and grateful to say anything. 

It’s first when he’s hoovered up every last crumb that he remembers to thank Hux and at the same time apologise for being a horrible date. He needs to make up for this somehow, he decides then and there to save up some money so he can take Hux out on a real date. Somewhere with white tablecloths, though he might settle for just tablecloths at all. That is, if Hux will even give him a second chance. 

Hux doesn't talk much, but he stays until the runes tattooed on his neck glow warmly, burnished gold against the white snow of his skin. “Duty calls.” He smiles, so fleetingly it’s more of a twitch and leaves without saying goodbye, disappearing into the darkness outside between the flickers of a broken street lamp. 

As soon as he’s gone, a haze tries to settle over his mind, but the faint smile and striking eyes are forever burned into his memory. He couldn’t forget Hux if he tried. 

The waitress slides into his peripheral vision a few minutes later, a take out container clutched in her small hands. He’ll probably risk spending a night on the toilet if he eats whatever’s inside, but it smells divine, greasy and full of carbs. “From your sugar daddy.” She states before he can protest, instead getting caught up on the thought that the grim reaper just bought him food. Shouldn’t he want people to die?

Cheeks flushed at the implication of him having sex with Hux he accepts the food, thanking the waitress and flees the area as fast as he can. That’s yet another place he can’t ever go back to. Jesus Christ, does he look that much like a prostitute? The scar splitting his face would probably put of more clients that profitable, he’d be a shitty hooker. Could probably earn a few bucks if he put a bag over his head and bent over, but not enough that the idea is worth considering. 

The door to his building creaks open, dragging on that one uneven brick in the entryway. It’s an easy fix, he could do it in ten minutes, he would if his landlady didn’t turn him down every time he offered. Sometimes he thinks Maz keeps it there as an alarm system of sorts, making it damn near impossible to sneak into the building unless you know how to scale a wall. He does, but this isn’t the kind of neighbourhood where you want to leave your windows open. 

As expected Maz’s head pops out of her office within seconds, freezing Kylo to the spot where he’s trying to sneak past despite his noisy entrance. She gives him an unimpressed look, adjusting the coke bottle glasses balancing on her flat nose. He should have left the window open instead of betting on Maz not being awake at this hour. 

“So this is why you always want to fix that brick, huh?” During his stint in the marines he’s seen a lot of things that are hard to forget, done a fair share too, but nothing can strike fear into his heart quite like a diminutive Cuban who has appointed herself as his grandmother. 

“I know, the rent. I’ll get it to you as soon as possible, I…,” She cuts him off, waving his words away with a tiny, wrinkled hand. 

“I don’t want your money, boy.” She shuffles over to him, grabbing his hand with impressive strength. He almost drops his food when she yanks him into her small office, folding him into the patchy couch near the crooked lamp that she also refuses to replace. “You think I don't see the blood on your hands?” Despite those thick glasses the woman has vision to rival a hawk, somehow always able to spot every little thing. It’s a talent Kylo finds frightening whenever he’s trying to sneak something by. If he didn’t know better he’d assume she has surveillance rigged up through the whole city. 

“And where did you get that food?” A finger delivers a few firm jabs to his chest when he opens his mouth to reply. “And don't you lie me to me, boy. You haven’t brought in groceries for a week and I know you don’t get your pension until next Monday.” She cuts him off again before he can say more than a word, “you didn’t sell yourself, did you, boy? You know I’ll feed you if you’re hungry.” Why does everyone think he’s resorted to prostitution?

“I got mugged,” He interjects before Maz can continue her triad, “I won, he had some cash, I took it.” He doesn’t know what’s worse, lying to Maz when he can tell she’s seeing straight through him, or telling her the grim reaper bought him a pity dinner, which sounds even more like a lie. 

Small, brown eyes, magnified to ridiculous proportions by her round glasses, scrutinise him. Searing through his armour and looking deep into his soul. “You know I don’t mind that you’re gay, boy.” She comes out with eventually, once again pulling that trick Kylo can never figure out, he’s just come to accept that Maz knows things you don’t expect her to know. 

“I did get mugged though.” He gestures weakly with his rusted hands trying to draw the conversation away from his sexuality out of habit. 

“The little fucker got what he deserved, now go clean yourself up, boy, you look like a mess.” It wouldn’t surprise him in the least of Maz knows the mugger is dead by Kylo’s hand, not just severely bruised. It’s unlikely the kid’s death will be reported on, so he feels pretty confident he won’t get tagged with murder, but Maz always knows. 

Standing by his sink he watches the blood run down the drain, staining the murky water pink. The stain on his shirt feels stiff and scratchy against his skin, he strips it off tossing it into the hamper. He’ll get the blood out, he can’t afford to lose a perfectly good shirt just because of a little blood, if anyone asks he’ll say it’s wine. 

It’s first when he’s sat down on his bed, springs creaking ominously, and looked around his little shoebox apartment that the events of the night really start to sink in. He killed a man, he murdered someone who was practically a child over two lousy dollars. What that says about his morals is frankly terrifying. What kind of a person does something like that? He’s no better than Tristen was, willing to take a life for some spare change. At least his motivation was wanting to live another day as opposed to trying to prove something to either himself or a gang. 

What will they think, he wonders, the people that knew Tristen. How long until they notice he’s gone? Friends, family, colleagues? Will anyone notice?

If it was Kylo lying dead in an alley would anyone notice that? Maz probably would, but what about his parents, would they? Would they look up from their busy lives long enough to notice that their estranged son is no longer begging for money with his tail tucked between his legs? Maybe they’d just think he finally got a job, try to call him in six months to ask if he’s still alive only to find out he’s not, that he bled out in an alley because some brat wanted his last two dollars.

No, he doesn’t feel regret about what he did. He ensured his continued existence for another day, that’s all. If someone else has to die for him to do so, that’s fine, better Tristen than him. Besides, he got to meet Hux. 

Hux, who is proof that there’s more to the world than he ever knew, that there’s life after death, and that nothing on earth can compare in beauty with death himself. He needs to see Hux again, to see that fanged grin, those green eyes. He’s been spellbound by the grim reaper and he knows it, this is either going to be the end of him or be the start of something unknown. Either way it’s changed life as he knows it and now he has to live with it.


	2. Is Prostitution Still an Option?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo gets a job

Getting a job is no easier this time than the last time he tried. It’s an endless parade of failed interviews and employers turning him away the second they see his face or military past. When not even KFC will hire you because “your face will put people off their food.” It’s really hurtful. His face isn’t that bad, if people honestly can’t handle a, mostly, neat scar then the job isn’t worth it. No job is worth being forced into a corner where he can’t be seen. People are really showing how grateful they are for his service. He didn’t sacrifice his face to a mad man with a fucking sword, got shot twice, and survived torture just so he could be shunned by society and slowly starve to death. 

It’s not fair, he should know that by now, but it never stops hurting when people stare, children point and whisper while their parents sneer in disgust. It makes him want to scream, to cut their face up, show them how it feels. Maybe they wouldn’t be so judgemental if they had to share his misery instead of acting like he made the choice to be slashed open from shoulder to brow. He went into the service knowing damn well that he might not make it back, but he went anyway because he couldn’t stand the thought that someday soon children wouldn’t be able to play in the streets anymore. He left to ensure the safety of the people and here he is nearly twelve years later being turned away by the ungrateful bastards he wanted to keep safe. Now he’s been left to rot because he doesn’t measure up to their beauty standard. 

If he wants a job with a mug like his he’ll have to look in the shadier part of town, the part of Chicago he really tries to avoid because his neighbourhood is shady enough. But as it is right now he’s desperate enough for a job that he can hold onto for longer than a few weeks. Maz says she doesn’t care about the rent, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t. Not to mention the backlog of unpaid bills gnawing at his consciousness. 

He’s sure if he ventures into the kingdom of rats and cockroaches someone will have use for him, it’s not an idea he likes, still, he’d rather rough up some people than crawl back to his parents again.   
His pride gets the better of him sometimes. 

It’s decided then, tomorrow he’ll set out for gang territory, there’s money to be had for people like him there. Bitter men with grey morals have their use, especially to a gangbanger looking for some extra muscle, if he can’t find anything there he’s as good as fucked. Prostitution is starting to look like his best option at this rate. 

“Find anything, yet?” Maz calls out as he’s trying to sneak past as he always does. 

“No,” he admits with a heavy sigh, combing his fingers through his hair before stepping into her office. “I’m going deeper tomorrow.” The look he gets chills him to the bone. 

“No son of mine is working for no street gang,” Kylo politely ignores the motherly slip up, settling for looking sheepish at the admonishment. 

“I can’t get work anywhere else,” he defends himself, gesturing at his face to prove a point. A point that sails straight past ancient ears with enough speed to sway drooping earlobes with the breeze. 

“Don’t talk like that, boy.” She smacks him in the stomach hard enough to sting, subtly feeling up his ribs at the same time, frowning when his weight isn’t up to par. “Come downstairs tomorrow at 10, I’ve got someone you should meet.” Mumbling curses under her breath she gives him the plate of cookies sitting on the desk and pushes him out into the hallway, patting him on the ass for good measure. He feels like something has just happened, but he’s not sure what. 

He does as he’s told, even puts on his nicest shirt. Maz sounded serious about her mystery friend so he’d rather not show up in a worn sweater that has more than a few holes. The entire thing seems suspicious and if he didn’t trust Maz with his life he’d be a lot less inclined to show. Still Maz is the kind of woman that always knows a guy, this might benefit him more than his previous plan ever could. 

Who is this guy anyway? Some high up CEO? Maybe a millionaire’s daughter in need of protection? There are thousands of possibilities that he could spend hours speculating on, imagination running wild. He’s always suspected Maz was a lot more than she looked like, a retired spy perhaps. She has to be involved with something, he’s sure of it. 

The door to Maz’s apartment is just as scuffed and worn as the rest of them, unassuming, blending in perfectly, she claims she’s been living here since the 70’s when the building was new. He can hear voices through the thin walls, the conversation sounds friendly enough, familiar in its laughter and easy tone. At exactly 10 am he knocks, the voices stop and even out here in the hallway he can feel the change in atmosphere. 

“He’s punctual, I like that.” The slight Italian accent causes his heart to stutter, no way. Kylo knows he’s probably getting ahead of himself, not all Italians are in the mafia, but in a somewhat terrifying way it fits everything he knows about Maz. Shedding light in all those little corners that have been shrouded in darkness. 

“Come in, boy,” apprehension in his every move he lets himself in at Maz’s command. “Sit, I made you breakfast.” She directs him into a rickety dining chair in front of a veritable feast of breakfast foods. 

Maz is at the head of the table, but his interest is drawn to the right because there sits a man he’s only ever seen in pictures. Handsome, well dressed, and graying at the temples, looking every bit the man he’s rumoured to be. Don Cesare Viviani cuts an effortlessly intimidating figure in Maz’s outdated kitchen, he smiles like a shark, a gold tooth shining in the corner of his mouth, and Kylo is afraid to move should he somehow offend the Godfather. He's very aware of the fact that he’s the only one with a clean plate, what exactly is the protocol for eating breakfast with the fucking Italian mafia?

“Mammina tells me you have skills I could benefit from,” Kylo forgets to breathe for a moment, this entire conversation is going to be like disarming a bomb, his body turning rigid with tension. “Says you was in the Marines.” His hand automatically snaps up to trace his scar, a blinding flash of steel cutting through his memories, he can’t stop himself from flinching, feeling a sharp snap of pain long gone, a blade glancing off his teeth. 

“Yes, sir,” not being entirely sure how to address a crime Lord, he easily falls back on treating him as a superior officer. It’s the highest form of respect he’s capable of, he never liked his superiors, always so obsessed with the paperwork and every last detail. He wonders how much more difference they could have made if they didn’t always have to follow the damned protocol. Viviani is different, Kylo respects him out of fear above anything else. 

Don Viviani shares a look with Maz, it reveals nothing to Kylo, their silent communication beyond him. “How do you feel about delivering a message for me?” Viviani leans back in his chair, sipping at his chipped coffee mug, “I’ve got a rat problem, you see.”

“A message, sir?” Whatever it is, he’s ready to do it so long as it doesn’t land him in jail. 

“Eat your breakfast, boy.” Maz puts the conversation on hold, pushing Kylo’s plate closer. He has a sneaking suspicion that he'll be leaving together with Viviani, he’d rather not go on an empty stomach so he tucks in. Dragging up long forgotten table manners he keeps his eyes to himself no matter how much he wants to study the Godfather. Thank god he wore his nice shirt after all. 

His assumption was correct. The second he’s cleared his plate Don Viviani gets up, that dangerously charming smile never leaving his face, “let’s take a walk,” he says. 

A walk that leads them out of the building and into the anonymous, black town car waiting at the curb. Kylo follows the Don with apprehension, trying to keep an eye on where they’re going, watching the scenery pass outside the tinted windows. No words are exchanged the entire trip that leads them to a stately townhouse, he assumes there is a do not speak unless spoken to rule, or maybe it has to do with the so called rat problem. 

One thing he’s fairly sure of is that he’s supposed to kill someone, it’s not exactly the career of his dreams. Still, he can’t blame someone like Viviani wanting to hire an insignificant grunt to do his dirty work, easier to erase the blame that way. What does befuddle him somewhat is that Maz has approved of this, does he really mean that little to her? If anything he would have thought she’d be fiercely against putting him in such a position. 

The room they end up in is clearly meant for business, anonymous furniture and wealth displayed in the art on the walls. It looks like the home office of the CEO of a major corporation, designed to make you feel inferior, the chairs in front of the desk low to the ground compared to the fucking throne behind it. 

Expensive leather creaks as viviani settles himself, a glass of amber liquor having found its way into his manicured hands while Kylo was distracted. The grandfather clock by the door strikes once to signal half an hour, steady ticking echoing through the eerie silence. 

He tries his best to hide the nervous energy rumbling inside him, putting on a facade of confidence that has a crumbling foundation. “Have a seat,” Viviani gestures to the chairs before the desk, signet ring clinking against his crystal tumbler. 

Kylo does as he’s bid, awkwardly folding his long body into the low chair, the scent of cigar smoke clinging to the fabric, wooden frame digging into his thighs. This entire room is a fucking scare tactic. 

“I’m gonna be blunt with you, kid,” he leans back in his chair, a mimicry of his position in Maz’s kitchen, only here he truly looks like a king. “I don’t give a fuck what your name is or about you, all I care about is if you got what I need,” This is it then. “Mammina says I can trust you, I’ll take her word for it,” The crystal tumbler finds its way onto a clay coaster. “This job I got for you is dirty, it’s in the family, you get caught that’s your fucking problem. Doing this for me won’t get you made, you’ll get paid and fuck off until I need you to whack someone else. Understand? You do as I say and we won’t have a problem.”

“Yes, sir,” back ramrod straight Kylo keeps eye contact, refusing to falter in front of his new boss who won’t hesitate to kill him should he step out of line. 

“My guy will drop you off at the rat’s nest, I want you to cut his fucking tongue out and mail it to the feds he’s been squealing to,” Brutal, but he’s done worse to survive before. “I need this done today, you talk, it’ll be your tongue next,”

“How do you want him killed?” Please don’t be a stupid question. The silence is suffocating, Viviani regarding him with cold eyes. 

“Fucking surprise me, alright?” he pulls something out of a drawer tossing it to Kylo. “Just get it done,” the handle of the stilleto is smooth ivory, an intricate design carved into the side, the blade gleams in the sunlight streaming in through the large windows. He’s instantly reminded of a scythe shining dangerously beneath yellow street lights. 

“Just one question,” Viviani watches him study the knife, hands resting atop his desk. “Do I send your regards?” There’s that smile again only this time Kylo doesn’t feel like he’s the one being hunted.


	3. Joining USPS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for murder and some light maiming

This entire thing appears to be a set up for him to fail, a test. Sending him into the unknown with only a name. There is no other information forthcoming, he has no idea where he’s going or what to expect, he could be walking to his death and he wouldn’t know it. All he has to defend himself is the knife Viviani gave him. It sits heavy in his pocket, a promise to do what’s been asked of him. 

The chauffeur doesn’t say a word, subtly keeping an eye on his passenger through the rearview mirror. Kylo is willing to bet he’s armed to the teeth and backed up with orders to kill him should this thing go sideways. How is this any better than working for gangbangers?

The house they pull up in front of is in the suburbs, clean and polished with a neat front yard, exactly the kind of house you’d buy to blend in. Who is this guy anyway? Nothing about the house gives him away, everything from the silver SUV in the drive to the basketball hoop over the garage blending seamlessly with the environment. 

“Don’t take too long,” the driver grumbles with his gravelly voice, throwing a pair of leather gloves into the backseat. 

Pulling the gloves on, snug leather creaking, he steps out onto the curb acting like he belongs just as much as the roses blooming on the porch. This is no different than anything he did in the marines, it’s just following orders.

In the spirit of remaining anonymous he rings the doorbell and waits patiently, no need to draw attention to himself. He automatically clenches his fists when a blur moves behind the frosted glass in the door, his target, an unassuming man in his forties, takes one glance at the town car waiting by the curb and steps aside. Stupid. He would have thought someone associating with the mafia would have more sense than letting a stranger into his house just because he was dropped off in a town car. For a split second Kylo wonders what the fucking hell he's gotten himself into before forcing the thought away and knocking the man out cold once the door is closed. 

William Russo hits the ground like a sack of potatoes, jaw cracking audibly on the polished wood flooring. Now what? Guns, search for guns, his brain supplies. Right. His pat down reveals nothing more than a slight paunch and some spare change in his slacks, Kylo keeps the change.

Dragging him upstairs comes next, he should probably tie him up and the bed is as good a place as any. Finding a solid four poster bed is like winning at a scratch ticket, even better when he finds coils of red, silk ropes in the closet. Suddenly he feels less guilt about bumping off a family man, though he still turns away the family photo on the dresser for the sake of his own dignity. 

With Russo tied up and still unconscious Kylo explores the house, looting some leftover casserole from the fridge and a box of pop tarts, theft is the least of his worries considering what he’s here to do. He looks at the family photos on the walls, the school trophies, even his wife looks like a trophy. It’s all a little bit too picture perfect. 

In the office he finds what he’s looking for, an address and time, no doubt a meeting with the feds. Perfect. He wonders again if this isn’t a set up, folding the note and slipping it into his pocket. 

Helping himself to the cookie jar on the coffee table and bringing it upstairs he settles in to wait until Russo wakes up. Can’t be too long. 

Five minutes later he stirs, groaning around the socks shoved into his mouth, confusion quickly consumed by fear when he sees Kylo waiting by the foot of the bed. Eyes blown wide, sweat beading at his temples, he struggles against the ropes, pulling until the bed groans in protest and his skin starts chafing. Kylo watches him squirm, awash with pity for a man who only wanted the best for his family. He should have thought it through before spilling, really he only has himself to blame. 

It’s first now that his nerves reappear, coiling tight in his gut. 

“Viviani says hi,” suddenly wanting this over and done with as fast as possible he clamps his hands around Russo’s neck, squeezing until the man turns blue and stops twitching. 

After, he stands there and stares, fingers locked tight around a dead man’s neck and staring into his slack face. He can’t bring himself to let go. 

Cold, pale hands wrap around his wrists gently pulling him away from the tied up corpse, steering him into a plush chair by the walk in closet. Red hair comes in to view as Hux kneels in front of him, tilting Kylo’s head this way and that, studying him. Kylo lets him, feeling more grounded by the reapers examination, surfacing back in the present. 

“Hi,” He rasps out through his dry throat. 

“What are you doing here?” The lack of sugarcoating is refreshing, Hux reminds him of Maz in that way. 

“Working,” he gestures at Russo, “I, uh, wanted to upgrade to Starbucks,”

“Somehow I’m not surprised,” a clipboard is dumped in his lap, “you know where to sign,” for the chance to see Hux again the paperwork is a minor annoyance, he’d fill out a hundred forms just to see him. 

The reaper is no less polished today than he was the last time, not a single hair out of place beneath his tricorn. If possible, he’s even more beautiful in the weak sunlight seeping in through the thin curtains, copper hair almost glowing. Kylo watches Hux do his job, bending over the body to poke at his bruised neck, humming disinterestedly. He is not the least bit ashamed about staring at the pert ass presented to him, happily fantasising about what else he’ll find under that uniform should Hux let him have a look. He’d happily worship the reaper from his head to his toes if he ever got the chance. 

“Stop staring,” Hux gripes. 

“Sorry,” Kylo mutters. 

The stiletto shifts in his pocket when he stands up, reminding him of why he’s here in the first place. The blade clicks satisfyingly when he flicks it out. Hux glances back at him, rolling his eyes and stepping away from the body, grumbling about showing off. 

Cutting someone’s tongue out is, perhaps not surprisingly, disgusting. In a matter of seconds there’s blood everywhere, staining the sheets and Kylo’s sleeves. Cursing to himself he sticks the tongue into an envelope he pilfered from the office downstairs, grimacing at the red stains spreading on the paper. He’s eternally grateful that it’s the type of envelope he won’t have to lick, the irony would have been unbearable if it was. He sticks it in his pocket with a shudder, if he could afford it he’d throw the jacket away after this. 

Hux watches all of this in silence, Kylo suspects he has no reason to judge, he’s guaranteed to have seen much worse. Besides, he’s only doing this because he needs the money, Hux knows that, so it’s not like he’s decided to become a serial killer just because he has a crush on a mythological creature. 

“I suppose I’ll be seeing more of you in the future,” there it is, that little fanged, half smile he’s been dreaming about, that row of subtly pointed teeth causing his stomach to flutter. Just thinking about the marks those teeth could leave is enough to make him forget about the tongue in his pocket and the corpse stinking up the place. If he had more time and slightly less dignity he’d get on his knees and beg to be used, have those sharp eyes watch him swallow Hux’s cock like a cheap whore. 

Sadly, as it is, he does have a tongue in his pocket and a wiseguy waiting for him outside, despite of Hux he’d rather not stick around until someone else gets home. If he got arrested he’d likely never see the reaper again. 

“I’ll buy you dinner next time,” he offers with all the confidence he can muster. 

“Going to spoil me with Burger King?” Hux teases, twirling his scythe like a show off. 

“Fuck you,” Kylo spits out half heartedly. 

“I don’t bottom,” the smirk accompanying those words is downright devilish, ginger brows raising suggestively. Kylo is in love. 

“I never said I didn’t,” he smirks back, barking out a laugh when Hux rolls his eyes. Turning his back and walking away from the exasperated reaper is honestly one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, but time’s up. 

The black town car is exactly where he left it, chauffeur, a heavyset Italian, waiting patiently with a book. He looks up at the sound of Kylo slamming the front door, leaving a bloody handprint on the white paint in the process. He thankfully has the foresight, out of self preservation, to remove his bloody gloves before touching the car, he’d rather not get an earful for something easily avoidable. 

“Took your time,” the man grumbles, pulling away from the curb. Kylo looks back at the house just quick enough to catch a flash of red hair in the bedroom window and smiles to himself, maybe Hux isn’t as indifferent as he acts. 

“Found some stuff in his office your boss might want,” going by the passing scenery they’re not going back to the townhouse. 

“He’s your boss too, Bambino,” He fiddles with the radio eventually settling on an oldies station playing Hank Williams. “You got the package?” He holds out an expectant hand, arm bent awkwardly through the window. 

“Sorry I got some blood on it,” now that he thinks about it he makes a note to bring plastic wrap, or a bag, or something the next time. If there is a next time. 

All he gets in reply is a grunt and a squinty eyed glare through the rearview mirror. 

They eventually pull up in front of an Italian restaurant downtown, Il Giardino di Palermo painted in gold across the wide windows, deciding not to push limits he stays in the car until he’s told to follow. The inside is horribly stereotypical with its red gingham tablecloths and soft lighting, though he can’t deny that the warm colours and rich wood create a certain cozyness, a sense of home. He follows the chauffeur right up to the bar where a middle aged woman greets him like family exchanging words in Italian. 

“Wrap this shit in some cling film and mail it to the feds,” standing at parade rest two paces behind, Kylo takes in the restaurant and its inhabitants, the majority of which are well dressed men. It’s plain to see what kind of establishment this actually is. “You eat cannoli?” He's met with an expectant stare. 

Realising he’s been asked a question he snaps out of his exploration, “yes, sir,” it’s a safe reply. He can barely remember the last time he ate a cannolo, it was before he shipped out, Leia always made such good cannoli. He’ll always remember coming home from school to shells frying in the kitchen and a bowl of ricotta cream in the fridge. Every weekend she’d make something sweet, but the cannoli were his favourite.

That was before his mother became too busy with her job, she never stopped bringing something home every friday, but the ones from the bakery couldn’t replace what he’d lost. It was probably the start of the gap between them that’s grown into a chasm, the loss of that one tradition. 

A young Asian girl comes up to the bar, replacing the woman, she looks out of place in such an Italian environment, but makes up for it with her sunny disposition. Her bright smile never once falters while she takes their order, round cheeks glowing, practically dancing off to the kitchen to get it. 

“Sit down, Bambino,” the driver almost folds him onto a barstool with pure force alone, despite his weight, Kylo realises, he could probably lift Kylo like he weighs no more than a peanut. 

“Yes, sir,” he utters again for want of something to say. 

“This isn’t the marines, Bambino,” he lights up a fat cigar, “Call me Cannoli,” he has a feeling he shouldn’t ask why, not that he really needs to. 

“Yes, sir,” Cannoli gives him a withering look, Kylo can’t help the minute twitch at the corner of his mouth. Before he can apologise for talking back the waitress returns. Rose, going by her name tag, a tiny flower drawn on it with sharpie, is still lighting up the room with her energy, balancing a plate with four cannoli and two cups of cappuccino on a tray. 

“Eat your cannoli, wiseass,” the cannoli are fantastic, the crisp shell cracking perfectly and the cream, rich and smooth. If he’d been more relaxed he would have groaned in pleasure. 

Not ready to let his guard down he settles for savouring the treat for as long as he can, sipping his coffee in silence always waiting for someone to speak first. Cannoli carries on a conversation with a couple at a nearby table that Kylo only vaguely listens to, mostly looking out for his own name or the childish moniker Cannoli has given him. 

For the moment Kylo appears to be forgotten, left to his own devices, drawing small patterns on the marble bar top with his fingers. He’s deep into thinking about Hux and wondering how long until they’ll meet again, already planning how he’s going to flirt with the uptight reaper, where he’ll take him for dinner, even what to wear, until he’s shaken out of his thoughts by Rose returning. She slides into his vision, permanent smile in place sliding him a scrap of paper with a phone number written in soft curves, a ‘call me?’ beneath it. 

An unwanted blush heats his face, shit. What does he say to this? Luckily Rose saves him from making a fool out of himself.

“It’s from the sous chef,” she explains, looking completely unphased by being used as a messenger. 

“I’m gay,” it’s not exactly eloquent, but it gets the point across. He is flattered though, it’s an extremely rare occurrence that anyone gives him so much as an appreciative glance with a face like his. 

“She gives her number to all the new guys because ‘you family types treat women well’,” she quotes, of course, who’s he fooling, the only reason people look at him these days is because of pity. “I have a gay friend though, if you’re interested? I could show him your picture, he likes beefy guys,” she beams in the face of his disappointment managing to wring a chuckle out of him.

“No, that’s okay, I have a dinner date with a drop dead gorgeous redhead, I promised him Burger King,” just thinking about Hux makes him smile, he’s only met the reaper twice, but damn it he’s in love. 

“Ooh, tell me more,” she relaxes into the bar, fiddling with the half moon dangling from her neck

“Well,” should he tell the truth? “He’s The Grim Reaper,” Yes, yes he should. It’s not like she’ll believe him, she’ll just think he’s full of shit and she won’t be wrong. “He’s hot as hell, killer eyes, pale as death, sinfully fit,” he rattles off not even trying to keep the grin off his face. 

“Isn’t he a little old for you?” She shoots back, taking his pseudo bullshit in stride. 

“He’s an ageless entity,” Rose is sharp as a tack, he could get used to bantering with her should he ever get to come back here. 

“How’s the cannoli?” The throwaway comment easily brings him back to his mother’s kitchen, maybe someday he could bring Hux there when he’s made something of himself. 

“Just like mom used to make,” He sighs wistfully, absently fingering a bullet hole in the bar front. Actually, now that he thinks of it there is an alarming amount of bullet holes in the walls and furniture. “What’s with all the bullet holes?” Slips out before he thinks it through. 

“Oh, they’re from the 40’s I’ve been told,” it’s probably a question she gets asked a lot because she smoothly segways into a story about a hit on a godfather that allegedly happened in the restaurant, the evidence left unmended for its historical value. 

Morning turns into afternoon, they must be waiting for something, otherwise Kylo would have been sent home by now. Right? Rose stops by periodically and chats for a few minutes at a time, telling him about her twin sister and the college courses she’s taking, never once asking him about his scar. He doesn’t have much to offer in return without giving away things he’d rather not so he tells her about Maz and his life after the marines, she never digs deeper. 

About three hours after they arrived Cannoli turns back to him tapping him on the arm and nodding his head towards the door. Time to go. 

He’s dropped off back at the townhouse where he keeps waiting to be told his fate in the office where this all started. The knife feels heavy against his leg, heart sitting in his throat. As much as he wants to see Hux he’d rather not be the corpse in that scenario. 

“You did good,” three simple words of praise light up a glow in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

“Thank you, sir,” it’s all too easy to slip back into parade rest, standing ready for inspection. 

“I did some digging, there’s no record of you in the marines,” Viviani casually pulls a gun from a drawer in his desk. “I trust Mammina, but I’m not sure I should give you the same respect,” he doesn’t touch the gun, it just sits there on the polished wood as a warning that he’s on thin ice. 

“Captain Beniamino Organa-Solo, sir,” there’s no point in keeping that a secret here. “My squad called themselves the Knights of Ren, the name stuck,” sweat beads at his temple. Shit, shit, shit! 

“Check it,” Cannoli, who's been lurking in the corner digs an iPhone out of his pocket. “Organa, huh?” Should he answer that?

“Yes, sir,” he swallows around the lump in his throat. 

“He checks out, boss,” Cannoli lumbers up to the Don and hands over the phone. 

Glancing back and forth between the screen and Kylo he can only assume Viviani is comparing him to one of two possible pictures. Either it’s the dreadful photo off him when he’d just enlisted or it’s the slightly newer, but still unscarred one of him in full regalia attached to the article about the brave marine who ended up being the sole survivor of a hostage situation that left him with a hole in his side and heavy thoughts about life and existence in general. He hates both pictures. He also hates that the article gives an obscene amount of attention to his lineage for no other reason than that Leia was running for governor at the time. 

“Tell you what, kid, us Italians gotta stick together, prove yourself and you got a family willing to support you here,” this, he's sure, was the last thing Leia wanted to happen when she left Italy, running from the Cosa Nostra. That her wayward son would get on this road. To Kylo this is an opportunity for safety and security, it’s no different than joining the marines, he’s still a soldier, only here he’s fighting for a different cause. It’ll give his life a purpose so all that’s left to say is;

“Where do I start?”


	4. The Garbage Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was mad at hipster food when I wrote this, don’t know if you can tell. 
> 
> Enjoy :)
> 
> Tw for an anxiety attack and murder

Cafés are not what Kylo would classify as his natural environment, but he’s dying to have some good coffee for once and food that hasn’t been nuked in his 70’s survivor microwave. The only reason he’s ended up in this hipster hell hole is because he’s seen people singing its praises online and he has ten grand stacked up. But now that he’s sitting here staring at a garden spade full of pulled pork, a flower pot of coleslaw, and a sad looking gluten free bun and some kale chips stacked onto a slab of rock he’s starting to regret his decision. He’s never setting foot somewhere hip ever again. If he wanted to assemble his own fucking food he would have gone to a Korean barbecue. At least the coffee is decent, even if it did come served in a fucking beaker.

It’s while he’s trying to decipher the scientific mystery that is his lunch that he hears a voice he thought was long gone. A voice that brings back memories of sunny days in Portland spent exploring the rocky beach by an old lighthouse. Now he regrets coming to this café more than ever. 

“I’ll be damned if it isn’t Ben Solo!” Kylo automatically looks down when Poe Dameron slides into the seat across from him. It’s almost as if meeting Hux has invited ghosts from his past back into his life. “I haven’t seen you since you shipped off. Man, I didn’t even know if you were still alive,”

“I’m not Ben Solo anymore,” he bites, always making sure his right side is turned away from his childhood friend. The part of the scar that runs down his neck he can easily cover with a scarf, but to hide the rest he has to rely on his overgrown hair and the shadows in this dimly lit booth. 

“The service really changed you, huh?” Despite his hostility Poe makes no move to leave, he never was very good at reading the signs when Ben wanted to be left alone, he should have known it would be no different now.

“You could say that,” he goes back to staring at his outrageously stupid meal, never once showing Poe his face. 

“So what are you doing in Chicago, buddy?” Wallowing in misery because he’s scared to show his ruined face to his parents. He can’t say that. 

“I’m a Mary Kay beauty consultant,” much to his disappointment Poe laughs instead of taking the hint and leaving him the fuck alone with his garden of pulled pork. 

“You’re hiding aren’t you,” shit, he’s also forgotten how alarming good Poe is at calling him out on his bullshit. “What happened to you, buddy, you just up and vanished,”

“Why are you here?” He cuts in, scraping the coleslaw out of its pot and resisting the urge to throw the damn thing across the room. 

“I work here, I’m a cop,” at the word cop Kylo’s head snaps up, completely forgetting that he’s trying to keep his mangled face out of view, as if this could get any worse. A fucking cop. 

Poe freezes mid sentence when he sees Kylo’s scar, pity immediately slithering onto his unmarred face. Poe fucking Dameron, handsome as ever, the face that charmed Kylo into bed on his 17 birthday almost unchanged. And here he is looking at the monster that used to be his best friend with pity in his doe eyes. What a fucking world this is. 

Suddenly he doesn’t want to be here anymore, doesn’t want his expensive coffee or idiotic lunch, doesn’t want one more look of pity. So he leaves, throws a crumpled fifty onto the table and flees without a word. He knows the waste of money is going to hurt later, but right now all he cares about is getting far away from Poe Dameron and every single preppy asshole in this cursed place. 

The street feels fucking crowded and he can’t remember which way to the train station, can’t even remember what street he’s on. All the guilt he’s suppressed about not going home and the fear of being seen like this, unshaven and in his worn clothes, rushing him at once. He’s a fucking failure, he knows it and now Poe does too, Poe who’ll probably call his parents and tell them their son looks like an urban legend. Poe who is a fucking cop. How can he know for sure he isn’t a suspect, that the police somehow know he killed William Russo. 

Fuck, he’s going the wrong way! He almost stumbles off the curb and into traffic when he’s swept up in the hoard coming off a crosswalk someone pulls him back from the edge, but his jumbled brain only registers strange hands on his body. Elbow flying back on a reflex he connects with bone sending them both stumbling back, he can clearly hear someone gasping for breath, it might be him, but he’s not sure. All he knows is that he needs to go. Which way was the station again?

Hands again. Who’s hands? Doesn’t matter who, they’re still a threat only this time they block his punch. “Ben? Ben, look at me,” Poe? Fuck! Anyone, but him, please. 

Kylo tears away, his own hands going up to frantically yank at his scarf, he can’t breathe. More hands help him unwrap the constricting fabric. Poe again? Why is Poe here, why isn’t he in Maine?

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s me Ben, it’s ok,” no, it’s really not, his new job entails killing people, he can’t talk to a cop. He tries to suck in a breath, but it catches in his throat, choking him. Where’s the train?

“Breathe with me, buddy,” those hands are on his face now forcing him to look down, to look at Poe. There’s a wall at his back, it’s making him feel trapped, but it’s better than the disorienting flow of pedestrians, he can breathe easier here. “That’s it, just breathe,”

“I don’t want to talk to you, please leave,” talking is like pulling barbed wire from his throat, but Poe needs to leave him alone, can’t see him like this, exposed and vulnerable. Ben might have allowed it once, but people change, Ben is dead and Kylo is not weak like he was. 

Poe just smiles placidly, shushing him as if he was a dog. Kylo tries to drag forth the man that has murdered two people in less than a week, to glare his old friend into submission even though his heart is racing and his palms are sweaty. 

“Not yet, talk to me, buddy, tell me what’s up,” kylo straight up growls, pushing himself up to his full height, displaying his bulk, looming over the other man. He’s regaining control of the situation now, his anxiety taking a backseat to anger. “Whoa there, buddy, calm down,” does he ever give up?

“Leave,” he’d rather not cause a scene, not more than he already has with his attack, but Poe is forcing his hand by being unfailingly kind. 

“Let’s go back to the café and I’ll buy you lunch, we can talk this out,” if Poe makes one more stupid suggestion he’s going to break his goddamn skull. “Come on, Ben, for old time’s sake,” 

“Ben is dead!” He forces Poe away from him, pushing him back with murderous aura alone, making enough space so he can escape before he does something he’ll regret. Poe seems to finally have taken the hint and doesn’t follow as Kylo continues walking the wrong way, he’ll find a station eventually. 

What he does find is a Subway, ironically enough, he is still hungry though and a foot long is too tempting to pass up. He only feels slightly less out of place in something closer to home than a hipster café. It’s there that he sees the impact of his job, on the small tv mounted on the wall. The murder of William Russo. A twisted sense of pride rises in him at seeing his own work being acknowledged like this.

The report is brief, stating the facts and and being oh so sad about the brutally murdered family man before moving on to bigger things. It’s enough to lift his spirits, smiling to himself behind his sub. 

He’s halfway through his lunch when his phone rings, ZZTop emerging from within his jacket, he hesitates before reaching into the pocket, expecting to find a severed tongue instead of his phone. Who the fuck would be calling him anyway? It’s not like he knows anyone, in fact, he’s pretty sure Maz is the only person besides his parents that has his number and she only ever calls to ask him if he’s eaten every two days and then orders him to come eat regardless of his answer. 

Unknown number is staring at him from the screen, he debates not answering until he sees the amount of attention he’s attracting. He’s only vaguely surprised to find Cannoli on the other end, more concerned about how he got Kylo’s unlisted number than why the mafia is calling him. 

“Get your ass down to the Palermo, Bambino, Boss wants to see you,” he hangs up right away leaving Kylo befuddled and slightly worried. 

One advantage to being a fucking sasquatch is that it’s easier to hail cabs. It feels like a gross misuse of money considering how far away the Palermo is, but by god he’s gonna get there as fast as he can. He’d do well to not get on Viviani’s bad side when he’s been told with no uncertainty that being punctual is a top priority. 

The ornate knife Viviani gave him nearly burns a hole in his pocket, fuck, he forgot to give it back. God he hopes he hasn’t broken some unspoken law. He spends the entire cab ride in perpetual anxiety, giving monosyllabic answers to the drivers attempts at small talk. Waking up this morning he never could have foreseen the mess this day would become in a matter of hours, he hasn’t felt this high strung since he was stationed in Iraq. Living in the middle of a war zone was less stressful than this. 

Rose smiles brightly when he steps through the doors and into the oregano scented haven of Il Gardenia di Palermo. Viviani sits near the back, next to the empty stage, his round table populated by a selection of well dressed men. He waves at Rose, trying to look natural and at ease, it wouldn’t do to let the gang of wise guys think he’s got a soft backbone. 

“Ah, there he is! Beniamino!” The Godfather stands to greet him, pulling him into a quick hug. “Play along, kid,” is whispered into his ear before Viviani pulls back, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to get the point across. 

“Real killing machine this one, been a good friend of mine over the years,” the men around the table all squirm under Viviani’s heavy stare. A young man with shifty eyes draws his attention, he’s trying to look relaxed and doing a fair job of it, but he’s easy to pick out amongst the others. He’s guilty of something. “Excuse us,” the Don leads him away to the bar where Rose waits, ready to help until Viviani tells her to mix their drinks at the other side of the horseshoe bar. 

“What do you think?” Viviani asks when Rose is out of view, gold signet ring tapping against marble. 

“The blond looks too nervous, there’s something there,” he offers. 

“Kill the prick,” 

“Yes, sir,”

With that Viviani retreats back to his table leaving kylo to bide his time at the bar. No info, not even a name, the boss wants this done now. He’s not stupid enough to kill a man in the middle of a restaurant, not even in the mid afternoon slump, so he settles in to wait, striking up a conversation with Rose when she returns. 

It’s a solid forty minutes before the blond bumbles out an excuse and slips out the door, looking around nervously before going left. Kylo waits a few seconds before following, Viviani raising his glass like a king above his subjects, the rest of the table looking relieved when Kylo doesn’t wait for one of them instead. 

His target doesn’t go far, slipping around the side of the building and into a small parking lot. It’s secluded enough. Slipping on the blood stained gloves from yesterday he grabs the blond, locking him in a choke hold and pulling him behind the dumpsters in case a passing pedestrian should see them. He struggles, prying weakly at Kylo’s arm, fighting until the last second. His neck snaps with an unpleasant crack. 

He’s digging through the man’s pockets in search of car keys when a figure emerges in his peripheral vision. “Don’t tell me you’ve sunk to thievery so soon, Ren,” Hux greets him. 

Finding what he’s looking for he makes a sound of triumph. “Just doing my job,” he answers. It’s fairly easy to guess which car he’s looking for, going by the GTO emblazoned on the silver keys, they clearly belong to the repainted Judge parked in the far end of the lot. “Give me a hand?” Hux frowns, he’ll take that as a no. 

Hoisting the dead body over his shoulder he hurries up to the car, best get the corpse out of view in case someone comes out the back door of the restaurant for a smoke. The dumpster is too obvious, so the car it is. Hux is at least helpful enough to unlock the trunk for him so he can cram the evidence in around the spare tire. “I need to go talk to the Boss. Please don’t leave?” Hux waves him away, engrossed in his clipboard. 

Back inside the restaurant it’s like nothing has happened at all, as if a man didn’t just get murdered round the back. Viviani is still at his table, laughing at something. The laughter cuts off abruptly when Kylo approaches, silence permeating the air. 

He can feel all eyes on him and his rusted gloves as he leans down to whisper to the Don, “he’s in the trunk,” he drops the keys on the table knowing better than to touch Viviani’s immaculate suit with bloody hands. 

Viviani picks up the keys, examining them closely. “Dump him somewhere, keep the car,” he says eventually, handing Kylo the keys. 

“Yes, sir,” the charged atmosphere is thick and heavy, following Kylo all the way to the door. He suspects this was a way to test his loyalty, how well he performs under pressure. He has the distinct feeling of having passed and going by the nervous glances by the rest of the tables occupants, it won’t be the last time this happens. 

A wide grin takes over his face when he sees that Hux is still there, waiting for him with that infernal clipboard. Kylo takes it without prompting, signing his name on the provided line. 

“I believe you owe me Burger King,” he’s completely blindsided by the statement, Hux wants Burger King? He was serious when he said that?

“I believe I do,” Kylo laughs. He glances briefly between the reaper and the corpse in his trunk before deciding that blondie can wait, he has a hot date to spoil. “I’ll even let you order outside the dollar menu,” there’s that smile again, a little peak of fang at the corner of his mouth.


	5. Whoopsidaisies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler, so much filler
> 
> cw for a dead body

He can wait, he can fucking wait, Kylo can’t believe he forgot the corpse in his trunk. The corpse that has been in his car since yesterday afternoon, his black car that has been parked in the sunny spot outside his building for hours. His brand new car that smells like a fridge that’s been abandoned since 1987. He’ll need to reupholster the trunk to get rid of that smell, the smell that is more potent than Leia’s blue cheese casserole one day past recommended. Jesus fucking Christ that’s awful. Where the hell would he even dump something this nasty, surely it would kill any plant life within a two mile radius if he chucked it in the woods, not to mention the wildlife. That unholy combination of dead meat and post mortem shit so foul it would knock the feathers off a buzzard. He can already tell this day is going to suck. 

In the end he decides to dump it off the pier near the abandoned warehouses simply because it’s the fastest way to get rid of the main source of the smell. He spends the entire drive there with his head sticking out the window just so he can breathe, eyes watering at the thought of what he’ll have to deal with once he actually opens the trunk. 

Somehow he makes it there without passing out from the stench, running on nothing, but pure determination and the memory of Hux’s childlike fascination with Burger King. The reaper was so obviously out of his element that it was easy to get him to admit he’d never been before. He’s glad he got to experience that first together with Hux and hopes that he’ll get to introduce him to many other human things that the reaper has yet to experience, if only to watch the expressions flittering across his face. That little smile is his favourite, but he’s fallen just as hard for every little nuance of Hux’s face. 

It’s the thought of that cheeky smile that helps him power through the big reveal, but even that can’t keep him from leaving his breakfast over by a nearby lamppost. Thankfully blondie looks more or less the same, if a little corpsy. 

One advantage of owning the car of a mobster is that there are handy tools left behind, like a length of nylon rope, he ties a piece of heavy scrap to the body and lobs the entire mess into the bay hoping he hasn’t severely harmed the local aquatic life. He can breathe a little easier now, but on the downside he too smells like death. He’ll have to burn these clothes and scrub himself with bleach just to be on the safe side, if he didn’t have to drive back home he’d do it right now. 

Having doomed himself to yet another drive with his head sticking out the window like an over excited dog he figures he’d best get to it, the sooner he can get rid of this smell the better. 

He ends up using nearly an entire bottle of bleach to clean out the trunk after he’s ripped out the carpet and created a bonfire in the empty barrel Maz lights up for the homeless people at night. That’s where Maz find him, standing a safe distance from the noxious fire wearing a pair of threadbare briefs and nothing else. 

“That smell gets into everything,” she tutts knowingly, tossing an afghan over his shoulders when he obligingly bends down for her. 

“That was my favourite pair of jeans,” he mutters despondently, clutching the soft blanket around himself. 

“He not not paying you enough to buy a new pair, boy?” She pokes his thigh with bruising force, for all of her concern Maz doesn’t seem to have any issues with leaving marks. 

“I haven’t set foot in a clothing store in two years,” Kylo quietly admits, he’s scared of how people will judge him, probably couldn’t go somewhere more high end than a thrift store without being assumed homeless. Not to mention his lack of options being his size. Buying anything online is out of the question. 

“Pah,” She waves a dismissive hand, “it’s easy, boy, you open the door and take a step,” magnified eyes scan him from head to toe, he shuffles uncomfortably. “Nothing wrong with your legs, go like this and maybe you’ll find a boyfriend,” the door scrapes on the loose brick, Maz’s laughter trailing behind. 

Well, now he has to go. 

His second nicest pair of jeans have a hole at the knee, frayed hems, and is worn thin at the crotch, denim straining across his thighs. As far as his memory goes, they were bought about six years ago when he was much less bulky. Six years ago when he could just go to requisitions if he needed a new pair of pants, things were so much easier when his rank dictated his wardrobe. At least his combat boots have survived well. 

Freshly showered and car still smelling faintly of death, but mostly bleach, he set off into town, heading for a sort of middle ground between thrifty and high fashion figuring if he’s going to buy new clothes he might as well look decent. It’s a shame the mafia don’t provide a uniform. 

Standing in the middle of the sidewalk he feels a little lost, which one does he choose? What the hell, he’d best just bite the bullet and step inside the first shop he sees. It is, after all, like Maz said, easy. Open the door, take a step. 

Take a step into the capital of prep apparently, this is not where he wants to be. Turning around on a dime he makes a beeline for the next store with mannequins in the window. Much more versatile by the looks of it. Despite the better selection he only leaves with two shirts, uncomfortable with the way the cashier is watching him, just watching, it’s unnerving. 

Window shopping feels much safer now that he’s gotten over his initial fear of stepping inside and actually buying something. That rush to be done easing off enough that he can actually look for something he likes instead of grabbing the first black thing he can see that might fit his broad shoulders. He makes a list as he peruses the various window displays of what he needs and tries to set a reasonable budget since he has no way of knowing when he’ll get paid next. 

Too many designer stores along the street is what he eventually decides, wandering his way into a Macy’s where he can be more anonymous. Here he can hide behind the racks, keeping his head down and collecting essentials that he won’t have to browse for. 

Basket full of socks, underwear and t-shirts he considers himself done, ready to move on and splurge on a good pair of jeans that’ll last him a few years. He’s almost to the checkout when he gets sidetracked by a flash of orange. Heart skipping a beat he seeks out the familiar colour, morbidly hoping that someone has keeled over and Hux is here.

No such luck.

He feels stupid now. Why did he think Hux would be in a department store? The flash of orange he saw turns out to be a plush cat, fluffy and of huggable size. The toy draws him in like a magnet, slightly wonky, green, glass eyes staring at him from a bush of ginger fur, it bears a striking resemblance to his favourite reaper. A smile tugs at his lips, pulling his scar tight across his cheek. 

A gasp to his right draws his attention, a child staring at him with big eyes, a teddy bear clutched in their small hands. Immediately the urge to hide his face rises, to pull up his scarf and let down his hair. When he tied it back this morning he thought about just cutting it off, save himself the trouble of dealing with his overgrown mane, now he’s glad he didn’t. It affords some protection, the more of his scar he can cover, the better. But standing there holding a plush cat, trapped in the enraptured gaze of a child he decides not to hide, not this time, let them see the realities of war. He did after all sign up, ready to die for the sake of future generations. For this kid and many more. 

He settles for giving them a murderous scowl, “it’s rude to stare,” the child spurs into action, taking off down the aisle and disappearing into the maze of shelving. 

The orange cat fits right in with the black leather interior of his car, a bright spot of colour in his passenger seat where Hux sat just yesterday. A regal creature in this classic car, fiddling with the radio and switching stations every two minutes. He can’t wait until he gets to see Hux again. 

Once he’s crossed jeans of his list it leaves him with one last item, a suit. A proper nice suit, one that fits every occasion so he hopefully won’t have to repeat this shopping spree anytime soon. All black is always the safest option, easier to hide bloodstains and with with a black shirt he doesn’t run the risk of looking like a rejected Blues Brother’s member. Not to mention how good he’ll look together with Hux. 

Why are there so many options for ties? How many patterns can they possibly put on a black tie? A woman approaches him while he’s contemplating life and the whole of existence in front of the tie display that spans half a wall, she cocks her hip, clearing her throat rudely. When he finally glances at her she forces a smile, judgemental disdain apparent in the way she wrinkles her nose. 

“I think this is a little out of your price range, sweetie,” she speaks to him with the kind of tone you only find in white people who think they’re better than you, treating anyone who isn’t wearing an entire chandeliers worth of jewellery like they’ve got the IQ of a houseplant. Perfect. 

“Wow,” for once in his life he’s grateful that she approached his left and is yet to see his scar. Taking in her tight lipped smile he takes advantage of his own misfortune, “I let them blow me up in Iraq and this is the thanks I get?” She recoils when he turns to face her, actually physically recoils as if he’s something out of a horror movie. He supposes he is to her narrow mind. “I have six grand in my pocket and you’re not getting one cent of it,” the satisfaction he feels when he flips her off is transcending, her offended gasp like music to his ears. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so pissed off. 

Maybe he should lure her somewhere quiet and get himself another date with Hux. Then again, he doesn’t want to seem desperate. 

His second attempt at buying a suit goes much better, fast and efficient, the salesman not batting an eye at Kylo’s appearance. He leaves satisfied, an appointment to pick up the altered suit in three days. If only all retail workers could be that professional. 

“Well, that was a nightmare,” he calls out, annoyance and sarcasm echoing through the lobby. Laughter from within the office is the only reply forthcoming. 

The shoebox he calls a home is a welcome respite from the world, the creak of his secondhand bed a familiar comfort. His mattress is old, probably older than he is, the springs digging into his back in that one spot he knows to avoid without so much as a glance, underneath the sheets it’s stained with various things he’d rather not think about, but it’s served him well the last two years. Hux would likely take offence to it, give it that tight lipped sneer, the same one given to the floor at the Burger King. He doubts he’d ever get the reaper into this bed. He doesn’t need it, but he’d buy a new one for Hux if he asked. It’s unlikely Hux will ever see the inside of this building anyway because if he ever gets that lucky he’s taking death himself to an asbestos free building where they won’t find a colony of cockroaches in the bathroom. 

Imagining Hux in bed leads him down a rabbit hole of filth, kinks he’s never considered factoring into the things Hux might do to him. Not that Kylo would ever tell him to stop. As far as he’s concerned, Hux can do whatever he wants. Those sharp teeth would leave him with some gorgeous momentos, permanent memories of the time he let the grim reaper use him. 

If only. 

It’s more likely that Hux took pity on him and sees him as a potential acquaintance at best, but if there’s one thing Kylo isn’t it’s a quitter. He’ll keep flirting until Hux either tells him no or gives in to his charms. He can’t wait for the next poor soul Viviani points him at.


	6. Who Dis?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for torture (Not very graphic), murder, anxiety

It’s almost a week until he hears from the Godfather again, a week of laying around and working out alternately. He’s hardly set foot outside the door, apart from picking up his suit, in an effort to avoid life and any possible run ins with Poe, or anyone else from his past that’s suddenly decided to migrate to Chicago. A week of staring in the mirror and contemplating if he should cut his hair and learning to shave with a stiletto when his razor becomes too dull instead of going to the pharmacy. A week of fantasising about red hair, pale skin, and glowing runes. 

The Palermo is becoming familiar to him, though he has yet to talk to anyone that isn’t Rose, Rose who waves cheerfully at him when he slips through the door feeling like everyone is staring at him and his new jeans. If anyone actually is staring at him it’s more likely because of his tied back hair putting his ridiculous ears on display. Not exactly the Hollywood version of a hit man, is he?

All the same he enjoys the look of sudden fear that crosses the eyes of a man having dinner with a young woman. He was here last week, Kylo doesn’t blame him for his fear. Curious to see what reaction he’s going to get he throws a smile at him, greeting him in silence like an old friend. He gets a nervous smile in return that resembles a grimace more than a friendly face. It’s nice to be respected like that. 

Viviani is at the same table he was last time, leaning back in his chair drenched in the aura of a man you want to steer clear of. Something’s happened and it’s not good. It’s likely safe to assume that things are not great when Cannoli calls. 

“Russo had friends, an entire fucking choir of canaries, and it’s worse than the fucking feds,” Viviani kicks one of the chairs out in invitation. “It’s a goddamn mutiny and I don’t know how fucking deep it goes. Right now I got Cannoli, Mammina, and you, that’s all,” he leans closer, jabbing Kylo in the chest just like Maz would do. “Can’t trust any of these pricks. You got one hell of a job in front of you, kid. You prove your loyalty, you get made, and then we hunt these traitors down like the fucking dogs they are,” the looming thundercloud rolls back, lightning flashing in steely eyes. 

“I got this address, Cannoli’s waiting for us,” he gets up, straightening the jacket of his suit and taking off towards the kitchen fully expecting Kylo to follow like a loyal hound. He does. None of the staff get in their way, parting like the Red Sea. They don’t look, they don’t speak, not even Rose quirks a smile. All, but one of them. A young woman dressed in whites watching them from behind the boiling pot she’s supervising, she doesn’t so much as flinch beneath the weight of Kylo’s murderous glare. 

Viviani doesn’t immediately head to a car in the near empty lot, raising an expectant brow when Kylo stops besides him for a moment. The Don scoffs at the ginger cat in the passenger seat, throwing her into the back with little care, Kylo keeps his mouth shut. 

“You know where this is?” Viviani shows him the address written down on his phone. 

“No, sir,”

“If you’re gonna be working for me, kid, you gotta learn the town,” Kylo nods, actually feeling a hint of shame at not being better oriented. “Just drive and I’ll give you the fucking directions,” he gestures out the windshield at the drab lot they’re still sitting in. 

“Yes, sir,”

The address, as it turns out, belongs to a barbershop. More precisely the soundproof basement of the barbershop that’s obviously a very good front for other things. Things that require a soundproof room, things Kylo is absolutely not going to ask about. 

Anyone who’d walk through this door would find nothing out of the ordinary, just a plain old barbershop with a display of hair products and a gaggle of women drinking coffee in the waiting area. The women pay them no mind, not even sparing them so much as a glance. Viviani strides across the floor like he owns the place, Kylo following a step behind, feeling like a flashing red light with his poorly groomed hair while in the presence of hairdressers. The fact that he forgot to shave today isn’t helping either. 

Tied to a chair sits a bleeding man, the image bringing back painful memories he wishes could be erased. He stutters embarrassingly, missing a step and taking a shuddery breath that he prays no one noticed. Cannoli gives him a brief look, wiping blood off his knuckles with a stained towel, before turning to the Don with an update Kylo barely listens to. He’d like to turn away, but his eyes remain glued to the man in the chair, blood dripping from his nose and one eye swollen shut, constantly trying to remind himself of where he is, repeating the address on loop in his head, desperately trying to stave off a flood of memories he knows will leave him catatonic for god knows how long. 

His iron tight control of his breathing is slipping, his hand automatically going up to his chest just so he can feel the shape of his dog tags pressing against his palm with each breath. He can’t do this here, not now, not in front of his boss. Hiding in the shadows is difficult in a near empty room, he feels too exposed here, an easy target. 

Gradually, bit by bit, his sense of awareness is slipping from his fingers, the nondescript room heating up from baking sunlight he knows isn’t actually there. He blinks away the ghostly image of a tortured corpse chained to the wall forcing himself to focus on Cannoli’s huge presence avoiding, at all cost, Viviani’s “conversation” with the man in the chair. 

He’s standing on the precipice, ready to be consumed by his worst nightmare, if he looks down he’s sure he’ll see his side drenched in blood, more oozing from the wound that almost killed him. He doesn’t try to stop the bleeding, death would be better than this. Suddenly he’s being pushed back, a steady force on his shoulder taking him away from the musty room reeking of death and out into the cool hallway. 

The change in scenery brings him one step closer to reality again where he becomes aware of his heaving breaths and how hard he’s shaking. The first real emotion that hits him is a burning shame when he realises he’s just made a fool of himself in front of the mafia. It only gets worse when Cannoli comes into focus before him. 

“I’m fine,” he grinds out in as normal a voice as he can manage, ashamed that he can’t force his body to cooperate. 

“I know what PTSD looks like, Bambino,” is the only explanation Cannoli offers, patting him on the shoulder hard enough to make Kylo’s teeth rattle. “Go upstairs, get a haircut,” he’s given a firm shove in the direction of the stairs not sure if he imagined the brief look of understanding in Cannoli’s hard eyes. 

He takes the stairs one at a time, each step bringing him further away from that awful room and into bright daylight flooding in from the huge windows up front. Cannoli must have somehow alerted the women because he’s barely set foot inside the shop before he’s being directed into one of the chairs. Unfortunately that puts him right in front of a mirror where he comes face to face with all his flaws. He looks pale and sickly, still shook from his near fall into hell, and he doesn’t feel much better either. He’s the one who should have died, not them. 

“How do you want it?” Acrylic nails scrape against his scalp, combing his hair out of the knot he’d twisted it into this morning. 

“Long,” He doesn’t trust himself to speak more yet, too afraid his voice will crack. 

“Okay, honey,” he watches her work with rapt attention, following every move with the scissors, always on the brink of leaping out of the chair should she get too close to his throat. She never does, humming a soft tune to herself while her fingers fly with practiced precision. “Enrico says you were in the marines,” She remarks after a while. 

“Who?” Kylo feels like he’s missed something. 

“My husband, big guy with a beard,” A light goes on in his head, the signs easy to see now that he knows what to look for. For some reason the thought that Cannoli has a life outside of the Cosa Nostra hadn’t occurred to him yet. “Our son was a marine too, god bless him,” a wistful look crosses her face, a moment of sadness that speaks a thousand words. 

“I’m sorry for you loss,” the phrase is on autopilot, drilled into his brain from years of attending funerals of people too young to be buried. 

“Thank you for your service,” she falls silent again returning her focus to his hair. 

What are they doing downstairs now? How cruel is Don Viviani capable of being? It’s strange knowing someone is being tortured just below him and the world around remains undisturbed. If he closes his eyes he imagines he can hear the screams. It seems so horrible to mix something as mundane as getting a haircut with the harsh realities of what’s happening in the basement. He’s almost scared of what he’ll find when it’s his turn to do his job. Will he choke again?

“Want me to braid it, honey?” Kylo likes Cannoli’s wife, with her soft voice and soft hands. She runs a comb through his hair, tidying it up until it cascades down just past his shoulders in smooth waves. He’s forgotten what his hair is like when properly cared for. 

“Please?” He hates the insecurity in his voice, the slight tremble. He remembers being amazed by the intricate braids Leia used to wear at parties, now he can wear those same braids if he wants.

Soft fingers stroke down his unmarred cheek, the warmed gold of a wedding band dragging over his skin. He can’t remember the last time someone touched his face with any affection. The rhythmic tug of his hair being braided is a comforting routine, a French braid taking form on the top of his head. At least his hair won’t get in the way of murder now. 

He’s prepared himself as well as he can by the time Viviani emerges from the back, nary a speck of blood to evidence what’s taken place. “Your turn, kid,” he helps himself to the pot of coffee behind the counter, sitting down as if exhausted from vigorous torture. 

It’s no better in the basement this time, now bathed in the sharp stench of fresh blood. Cannoli is waiting by the door, his features locked in a grim frown that follows Kylo all the way in. The man in the chair is broken, fingers sticking out at odd angles, drawing wheezing breaths that gurgle unpleasantly. This is a mercy killing. Strangulation isn’t quick enough, this man has suffered plenty already, the least Kylo could do is give him a quick end. 

The handle of the stiletto is cold in his clammy hand, it’s slides into the man’s neck with little resistance, severing his spine. Quick and painless. 

“You’re Kylo Ren?” A woman scoffs, her British accent crisp and melodic. She’s dressed head to toe in armour, the same pitch black as Hux’s uniform, her scythe of a rougher design, but just as deadly. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Where’s Hux?”

The clipboard slams into his chest nearly knocking the wind out of him. “His best friend,” she states. “I wanted to meet the mortal with a hard on for death,” Kylo frowns, scribbling his name on the designated line. 

“I don’t get off on it,” he pulls a face, nudging the dead man’s leg with the tip of his old converse. “Hux thinks I get off on killing people?” Man, that hurts. He can’t believe Hux would think that about him, his morals may not be all there, but even he won’t sink that low.

“Wipe that look of your face, I meant Hux,” the clipboard is snatched out of his hands. “What?” She asks, “you didn’t realise reapers are dead?” No he most certainly did not, though he supposes that would make sense. Does that make him a necrophile?

“General Armitage Hux was killed during the Siege of Yorktown in 1781, he’s always been a bit sore about losing the revolution,” the clipboard turns to smoke when she lets go, whisking away on an unnatural breeze. “Whatever you do, don't mention the French,” she quirks a smile. He gets the distinct sense that she’s giving him advice on wooing Hux. 

Advice that would suggest Hux is actually interested beyond a curiosity with the modern world and the idiot tripping all over himself to please him. He might actually have a chance with someone so far out of his league that it’s damn near astrological. What are the fucking odds of that?

“I’m gonna go,” The room is starting to get to him again, death hanging in the air. It’s putting a slight damper on his mood. “It was nice meeting you,” He makes a sort of all encompassing gesture, unsure of what he’s trying to convey, edging his way around the leaky corpse in the folding chair and to the door. The reaper waves absentmindedly as he slips out into the hall. 

Once outside he gives a full body shudder, trying and failing to shake the heebie jeebies away, completely forgetting that he’s not alone. 

“I thought I said to get a haircut.” Kylo is not at all proud of how he starts at the sudden intrusion. 

“I did,”

“You look like one of my daughters,” Cannoli grumbles, squinty eyed stare never changing while Kylo wipes the blood off the stiletto with his already stained shirt. 

“I’m gay, I’m allowed to look like this,” if possible the stare becomes even squintier. Kylo gives him a big grin in response. 

“Idiota,” it’s muttered under his breath, Cannoli clomping his way up the stairs with an exasperated shake of his head. “Go home, Bambino,” he grumbles. 

Kylo would like nothing more.

That night when he sleeps he’s haunted by screams, the sound of blood dripping on a dirty floor, of a man being skinned alive and the camera recording it. When he startles awake it’s to the phantom sensation of ropes around his wrists, the scar in his side throbbing with pain. He cries out, curling in on himself while choking on the imagined smell of blood and fear, damp earth and hot concrete. He wants to cry, but his eyes stubbornly remain dry while the rest of him soaks in sweat.


	7. Italian Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week we are reporting in from Oslo airport because layovers suck and I found some free internet. I miss Holland already, but at least I get to see Noodle soon for some much needed birb love and probably pass out with Arnold while he tickles my armpit with his fluffy paws like the little shit he is. 
> 
> I know in the real world it could take years to get made, but I don't have the patience for that so I've taken some liberties.
> 
>  
> 
> cw for anxiety and suicidal thoughts

"As burns this saint, so will burn my soul. I enter alive and I will have to get out dead." The picture lights up, two drops of blood blistering in the heat,   
black spreading over the glossy surface as Kylo repeats the vow. Heavy words that tie him to Don Cesare Viviani for life, their gravity anchoring him in the moment. Once the saint has been passed through the hands of the few people present it’s left on a plate to smoulder into ashes. There’s no going back now. 

“Welcome to the family, kid,” taking the hand offered to him, he bends just enough that the Godfather can kiss his cheeks, for the first time greeting him as family. 

Kylo just signed his soul over to the devil and his name is Don Viviani. There’s not a smidgeon of doubt in his mind that he’s made the right choice, not after what they’ve been through together the last few weeks. The garbage business has been booming, bodies piling up, the result of their vicious crackdown against the rotten core of the family. Viviani himself is a rabid dog at best, a vicious shark on land, but he knows what he’s doing and that’s where Kylo’s loyalties lay, not with the asshole who thinks he can take over. He’s had enough experience with hotshots pursuing goals way above them to know he’s right. This is where he’s supposed to be. 

“Let’s eat,” beyond the doors of the Palermo’s office a banquet is laid out for them in the closed off restaurant, more food than they’ll be able to put away.

Kylo has never been one to enjoy parties, but seeing Maz there amongst the Don and Cannoli’s families helps bolster him for the assault to come. She’s the first one to reach him, dragging him down so she can wrap her skinny arms around his neck, he’s almost afraid to hug back, scared he’ll crush the frail old woman. Pulling back she grabs his hand, bringing the silver signet ring on his pinky up close to her glasses, squinting at the crest adorning it. The seal of his allegiance polished to a shine good enough to pass muster. Smiling she pats him on the ribs in her usual, poorly concealed, way of checking his weight before moving on to hug Viviani, pretending not to be smug about how he’s filled out. 

Though he’s met the majority of those present they all greet him like he’s new, the whole situation is strangely reminiscent of a funeral. By the end of the line his left cheek feels slimy with lipstick and saliva from all the kisses, it’s a practice in self control to not wipe his face in disgust while he waits for his turn at the chicken parmesan. Plate loaded with a mountain of spaghetti he falls into his seat between Maz and Anna, Cannoli’s wife. The two women spend the entire meal sharing mirthful glances over Kylo’s lack of proper table manners, his only real effort lays in keeping the sauce away from his new suit as he shovels food into his mouth. 

Never in his life has Kylo felt his Italian heritage more keenly than while seated at this table, surrounded by good food and his brothers in the Cosa Nostra. Leia would be weeping if she knew, if she saw him sitting here amongst the very people she ran away from 30 years ago, the organisation she’s been working so hard to dismantle. She’d turn him away if she saw him regardless of the mafia, just as ugly inside as he is out, her life is better off with him faded into obscurity. And Kylo himself is better off far away from Portland where he can safely stew in his own insanity. 

The party goes on around him, laughter and music twining through his braided hair and past his ears, the smell of sweet desserts and rich wine wafting on the air. The gathering may be in his honour, but he feels more like a casual observer than the man of the hour. The stiletto burns hot in his pocket, he wishes Hux was here. 

A hand forcefully inviting him out onto the improvised dance floor breaks him out of his musings. Small and wrinkly, dark skin in sharp contrast to his own pallor. Maz dances like she’s twenty years old forcing him to dust off his meagre skills to somewhat keep up with the spry woman, flitting about the available space like the queen she is. 

Again Maz leads as an example, passing him off to the next woman with empty arms like a game of hot potato. At first it’s fun, he smiles, enjoying the festivities. He dances with the wives and daughters of near strangers for what feels like eternity, a sheen of sweat building on his brow. Having his comfort invaded time and time again until the room is a blur of light and sound. Can he go home soon? If he can’t dance with Hux then he’d rather be home in his own bed. This is all too similar to the confusion and white noise that follows the impact of a missile. 

He feels clammy and shaken when Maz takes over again, leading him into the kitchen where he can breathe. “Take it easy, boy,” she soothes while Kylo searches for the manual to his lungs, they don’t seem to work quite like they should. 

Dinner reappears in the sink when his world won’t stop spinning and he can’t help, but lament the waste of food despite the throbbing in his head and legs that refuse to keep him standing. Laughter drifts in on a surge of noise, the swish of the kitchen door signaling the presence of someone new. 

Pathetic would be a fitting word to describe how he must look, curled up on the floor like a child. He’s supposed to be the devil incarnate, the Godfather's bloodhound, not this weak, shivering mess. 

The door swishes again, the artificial sigh of a rubber skirt on bleached tiles. Maz is back at his side, her perfume a blanket of trust he can wrap himself in. He remembers the first time she saw him like this, back when he was sleeping wherever he could find shelter, when he was one of the homeless people gathered around that rusted barrel trying to gain some semblance of heat in his worn body. Fresh out of his waking nightmare a car backfiring had left him clutching at the still tender scar in his side, lost in his own head until a little, old lady gave him the help he needed. She gave him the tools to survive and mend what he could of the leftovers of his mind. And here she is, two years later, still holding him in quiet reassurance while he rebuilds his grip on reality. 

Too many hands, too many people, the noise from outside is still bothering him, his overloaded body cramping in protest. Maybe he shouldn’t have done this, what kind of mafioso is he, murder is his hobby, but place him in a social setting and his brain overloads, locking down and leaving his body to fend for itself. 

“Ey, what the fuck happened to him?” The problem with being at a party is that you’re never truly alone, someone is bound to see you sneaking away. He’s glad it’s Viviani and not some stranger, while at the same time he dreads his boss seeing him like this. “Is this one of them episodes Cannoli was talking about?” Leather soles scuff on the floor, tracing a path up to them. 

A champagne cork pops, Kylo can feel what little colour he’s regained drain from his face. 

“Do we need to call an ambulance or something?” Kylo’s stomach convulses painfully causing him to gag on his tongue, body trying to expel what isn’t there. “Ah, shit,” the clang of metal bowls is painfully loud. 

“He’ll be fine,” reassuring hands stroke his head, warm against his clammy skin, “he just needs some peace and quiet. Go back to your party before the guests start missing you,” Viviani scoffs, shifting his weight, staring from his spot by the stainless steel counter a few feet away. 

“I’ll send Cannoli to take him home,” another surge of noise marks the Don’s departure. 

Cannoli lumbers into the room a short while later bringing with him a grave atmosphere, Anna at his heels. He feels like a child when the huge Italian easily hefts him into his arms, carrying him out to the car when Kylo’s legs won’t keep him upright. Every step Cannoli takes calls up pins and needles in his numb body, aches and pains he didn’t realise were there until he’s tucked into the backseat of a sedan, Maz squeezing in next to him, her bony thighs serving as the most comfortable pillow in the world. 

She’s tired, he can tell that much, hear it in her breath, sometimes he forgets how old Maz actually is, how unfair of him it is to put this on her. He really is nothing, but a burden, isn’t he? 

Movement makes him dizzy so he closes his eyes, pushing his face into the fabric of Maz’s dress. Emotion is starting to return, pulling his mind from the dark recesses of his trauma. It’s overwhelming, making him feel like he’s losing control all over again, he’d rather remain disconnected. He can feel it coming, the flood of pent up tears pressing against his eyes. He’ll feel better if he cries, he knows he will, but is it worth the humiliation of making himself look weaker than he already has?

The choice is taken from him, choked back sobs forcing their way past his crumbling walls. He muffles himself as best as he can against Maz’s soft belly, weeping like a child until exhaustion takes over. 

“Shh, baby, you’ll be okay,” Maz whispers, holding his quivering shoulders with the kind of strength only a mother can. 

When he wakes up it’s to the cold autumn breeze slithering in from the open car door, the expensive fabric of Cannoli’s suit rubbing against his damp face. Scratch, the door goes over the uneven brick, stairs creaking, the dusty smell of an old building. Kylo keeps his eyes closed until he’s set down on his bed. 

He peers through bleary eyes, lids heavy with exhaustion, at the small gathering in his apartment, the whispering trio standing in his kitchenette. The stiletto is a hard presence against his ribs, pressed into his skin by the mattress, how easy it would be to end it all. To stop this misery. That way he can be reunited with his knights, in hell where he belongs. 

Three pairs of eyes snap to him in panic when the click of the blade cuts through the muted conversation. The panic and fear in their faces hits him like a bag of bricks. Time stands frozen for what feels like hours before there’s a flurry of blue fabric and Anna is prying the knife from his trembling fingers with alarming desperation. Why would they care if he died? He’s nothing but a burden, a soldier in the ranks. 

“Don’t do something stupid, boy,” Maz smacks him the shoulder, taking the knife from Anna and passing it along to Cannoli. “Who’ll eat all my leftovers if you do, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” god, he even sounds pathetic, but at this point he’s too tired to care, too tired to do anything, but scoot into the offered embrace. 

Despite her size, being held in Maz’s arms makes him feels small and safe, like when Han told him bedtime stories, Ben snuggled up in his lap. He can’t do that to Maz, he’d crush her, but she gives him that same feeling of contentment, of home. 

This day wasn’t supposed to end like this.


	8. Ey Tony!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because everyone deserves a break.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sunday morning there’s a knock on his door, loud and insistent. It jars Kylo from his uneasy sleep, forcing him to roll out of bed, pull on a pair of sweats and answer the door mid yawn. Cannoli stands on his doorstep, grey suit, no tie, looking like he does every day. Kylo feels like a wreck in comparison, standing there with his bruised eyes and the same braid he wore on friday. He subconsciously lays a hand over the gnarled dip in his side, the mark left on him by a .45 bullet in the back. 

“Boss want me?” Kylo mumbles to the floor, shame flooding him at the memory of crying in front of this man, having to be carried around like a useless child. 

“He’s downstairs, thought I’d see if you were still alive,” and finish him off if he is? Don Viviani won't want someone like him in his crew, Kylo can respect that. Although, he did wish The Boss himself would be the one to kill him. 

“Sorry I didn’t save you the extra work,” he sits back down on his bed, it’s easier for Maz to replace a bed than the floor. 

There’s a beat of silence, “You think I came here to..,” Kylo flinches at the volume, hunching in on himself as Cannoli launches into an impressive array of curses in both English and Italian. He poses as more of an intimidating father figure than Han ever did, in that Kylo has no temptation to cross him. Not even his drill sergeants could make him feel so dressed down. “Anna wants you over for dinner,”

The odd closing startles him out of the curl he’s folded himself into, “What?”

“She likes adopting strays,” is the only explanation offered to him, he’s not even offended at being called a stray. 

“You don’t.., I’m fine, I don’t need you to feed me,” Kylo snatches a t-shirt off the chair by his bed, starting to feel somewhat self conscious under such close scrutiny. 

“I don’t make the decisions, Bambino, food’s at six,” already he’s running through all his back up excuses, scrambling for any reason at all to avoid this. He’s not the kind of person you want as a dinner guest. Given his luck he’ll probably break a priceless family heirloom. The only way he’d survive dinner at someone else’s house would be if he sat on his hands and glued his mouth shut. “No excuses,” Cannoli must see the gears turning in Kylo’s head for he leaves no room for argument in his tone. 

“So he does live!” Oh no.

Don Viviani saunters into his apartment and Kylo suddenly becomes very grateful that he put a shirt on. The Godfather turns in a circle, taking in the cramped space, steely eyes finally landing on Kylo’s supply of instant noodles stacked on the kitchen counter. “Somehow I’m not surprised,” his nose wrinkles in distaste. “You got them attacks, huh, like Tony Soprano,” straight to business as usual, he can only assume Maz filled him in. “you take pills for that?”

“Do I look like I have medical?” Sometimes he can’t help being a wiseass, in times like these he regrets it. Viviani doesn’t comment, taking a second look at the peeling wallpaper. 

“I’ll take you to the family doc, he’ll tell you what you need, we’ll go get it for ya,” he rattles off after a moment of thought, like it’s that easy. Wham bam thank you ma’am. “I won’t let my anyone in my family suffer,” strangely heartfelt, Kylo didn’t think Viviani was capable of much affection. He has a feeling Maz put him up to this. Why else would the man, who can’t even remember his name half the time, suddenly start caring if Kylo breaks down. “Just don’t let it get in the fucking way of business,” ah, there he is. 

Viviani takes one last sweeping glance before vanishing out the door. Can’t he ever catch a break?

On a more positive side of things, the mandatory dinner has forced him to get out of bed and take a shower. Making the minimum effort of being presentable he puts his wrinkled suit back on, he still looks a mess. Unshaven, hair hanging loose, but he can with certainty say he doesn’t smell like anything, but Old Spice. He forgoes the tie when he can’t muster the brainpower necessary to tie it correctly. 

Should he bring something? He probably should. He hasn’t been invited to dinner at someone’s house since he was a teen, back then he was free from adult obligations. If he remembers correctly Leia always brought flowers or wine. 

Wine he can rule out easily, he wouldn’t know what to get, his knowledge only extends to colours. Alcohol isn’t his strong suit at all, his memories forcing him to stop drinking by becoming increasingly painful with each sip. He gave up all together when he couldn't afford to drink any longer anyway, not if he wanted to eat. 

Flowers it is then. 

They should at least be nice flowers he reasons while perusing the limited selection left over after a long day of business. Roses feel wrong, lilies not much better, though, Hux might like those. What he leaves with is a selection of colourful blooms that the lady at the counter assured him he couldn’t go wrong with. He sure hopes she’s right. 

“Strawberries, cherries, and angel’s kiss in spring,” the soft voice of Nancy Sinatra croons from the radio. Kylo’s ginger companion sits next to him in silence, glass eyes devoid of life. 

Cannoli lives in the suburbs, identical houses in a cul de sac, it almost reminds him of home. The downside of driving a car with a V8 is he can’t sit in silence, lurking in the drive for twenty minutes, his presence announced before he’s even come to a stop. 

“Don’t speak, don’t touch,” the mantra is on repeat in his head, to whatever god might exist, please don’t let him fuck this up. Cannoli has kids, Kylo is abruptly reminded of that when he sees the bikes by the garage, kids that are going to see his unholy face. It’ll traumatise them. Fuck! He can’t do this. It’s not fair to the children. These people are letting a murderer join them at the dinner table, someone who has done unspeakable things in the name of higher authority, someone who murdered a kid over two lousy bucks. How the hell is he supposed to eat in front of children without his scar, distorting with every chew, putting everyone else off?

“Bambino!” Kylo jumps, he hadn’t even noticed the front door opening. “Stop woolgathering and get in here,” in a last bid for decency he pulls his hair forward to cover what he can of his unsightly face and prays that it’s enough. 

Several of the stems are broken, he can feel the distortion in the buquet clenched tight in his fist, he feels stupid for bringing them now. What’s this sad bunch of flowers going to do to save his ass from utter humiliation. What a fucking tragedy this is already. 

Cannoli doesn’t deign to wait for him, just heads back inside, the door left wide open. Kylo feels like an intruder when he steps over the threshold, closing the door softly behind him. The house is fragrant with spices, the unmistakable scent of lasagna drifting down from the kitchen. His stomach rumbles forlornly at the promise of food. Should he take his shoes off?

A teenage girl trundles down the stairs before he can make up his mind, her brown curls an obvious genetic pass-me-down from her father. She smiles faintly, her step slowing as she passes him by dropping into one of the plush sofas in the living room. Kylo automatically turns his face away. The only thing that could be more mortifying is if he turns tail and runs, forced to live with the knowledge that he couldn’t handle a simple family dinner. 

Anna saves him from his existential crisis, appearing like a fairy godmother where she’s needed most. A Kiss the cook apron tied around her waist she’s the very picture of a suburban mom, Kylo feels over dressed in his suit. Awkwardly presenting her with the now slightly askew flowers is all he can think to do, glad that his hair covers his boiling hot ears. 

Don’t speak, don’t touch.

The potential for destruction is huge he notes, porcelain collectibles on nearly every surface within view. He tries to hide his simmering anxiety, accepting the hug Anna pulls him into as casually as he can muster. She thanks him for the disappointing bouquet with a wide smile and it makes Kylo feel slightly better about the situation. 

“You drink, Bambino?” Cannoli cuts in from the kitchen, his huge frame filling the doorway with ease. 

Kylo just shakes his head. Where’s that damn confidence he summoned up in that shop when he needs it. Had this been any other family he might have been able to find it, but knowing how broken he’s been in front of these two people makes it all the more difficult to put up a facade. They’d see right through it. 

Realising he can’t spend the entire evening in the entrance hall Kylo forces himself to move, making sure not to touch anything easily broken. The house itself is cosy and inviting despite its anonymous exterior, up to date, but lived in. It’s nothing like the pristine house of William Russo, devoid of personality. It looks like a family home, as it should be. 

It feels awkward, standing by the mantlepiece, inspecting a porcelain dog to the backdrop of Cannoli’s daughter texting. His paranoia says she’s gossiping with her friends about the freak show in her living room, rationality says that’s unlikely. It’s a constant battle, but paranoia almost always wins. It doesn’t help that he can see his distorted reflection in the large, ornate silver plate serving as a centrepiece on the mantle. His own face seems to be haunting him today. 

She looks up momentarily meeting Kylo’s eyes across the room. “Did you know my brother?” She asks out of the blue. “Dad says you were a marine, like him,”

“No,” is all he dares to say, if he did know him he wouldn’t remember. These days he struggles to remember any faces apart from the six people he let down in the worst way possible. 

Anna comes to his rescue once more, keeping him from blurting something stupid or falling into a memory ditch by distracting him with a drink. “It’s a virgin,” she assures him, giving the little paper umbrella a flick. “This is Louisa, she likes braiding her hair too,” if Kylo didn’t know better he’d assume Anna was trying to set up a friendship between him and her teenage daughter who can’t be older than sixteen. She couldn’t possibly expect anything of the sort to take place. It’s more likely she’s trying to make him talk in a vain hope that he’ll relax. “Doesn’t Kylo have nice hair?” She asks encouragingly running her fingers through his lose hair and working out a knot. Her hand stays firmly on his left side respectfully leaving his scar covered. 

Louisa nods, distracted by her buzzing phone. Kylo imagines he would have been much the same had he had a smartphone at her age, there’s only so much Snake you can play before your thumb starts bleeding. 

“Why don’t you braid it for him?” What now?

Louisa perks up at the suggestion and Kylo feels like he’s walked straight into a trap. He should have braved the embarrassment and ran when he had the chance. Anna gives him a not so gentle push towards the couch, Kylo forced to accept his fate in the face of being rude to his host. There goes his plan of keeping up his The Grudge inspired look for the evening. 

“So like what do you want? Pig tails? Cornrows?” She sure is her father’s daughter. 

Kylo shrugs, whatever she does it’ll bare his face, maybe if he has a ridiculous hairstyle it’ll draw the attention away from the obvious. Giving off the same vaguely menacing energy as Cannoli she combs through his hair with her fingers, pulling it back away from his face. She has next to none of her mother's gentleness in the way she handles his hair, pulling braids so tight he feels like his entire face will come off if he moves the wrong way. 

“Like who are you?” Tug, tug, tug, a murmur of voices seeps in from the kitchen, “CIA or something?” Tug, tug, tug. 

“I’m the token gay guy on a 2000’s sitcom,” he can practically feel her rolling her eyes behind his back. Likely thinking he’s a schmuck and assuming the worst. 

“Mood,” she mutters and tugs extra hard on the braid she’s twining along the crown of his head. Once again Kylo feels out of the loop. “What happened to your face?” Is a question he’s been asked often enough that he’s progressed through anxiety, anger, depression, and landed on just accepting that people are always going to ask and there’s no point in caring anymore. 

“The gay war of 2012,” he sighs already having spoken more than he intended. Why does she have to keep asking him questions he can’t ignore or answer with one syllable?

“Are you always like this?” She quips. Snapping a hair tie off her wrist she ties together two braids at the back of his head. 

Deciding to keep being a wiseass he answers her by taking a deep drink of his virgin cocktail, clearly stating that he won’t say another word. The drink is surprisingly pleasant, fruity. Taking another sip he hums approvingly before clambering up off the floor putting some distance between himself and Louisa. 

“Lou, go get your sister, dinner’s ready,” thank god, hopefully this can be done soon. 

Apron less and scented with the steam from the oven Anna breezes by, hooking his arm and leading him through to the dining table. The flowers he brought stand as the centrepiece and the food smells great, provided he can keep his mouth shut this might not be so bad after all. 

The lasagna lives up to its hype, it’s so damn good he forgets about his scar pulling awkwardly and eats the most he can get away with while still being polite. It’s first after they’ve eaten that Cannoli pulls him aside, out into the cool air on the back porch. Kylo twists his new signet ring anxiously, assuming the worst will happen despite this morning’s colourful dressing down. At least he doesn’t think Cannoli will put a bullet in his head here. When the stiletto Viviani gave him emerges from a pocket it does nothing to alleviate his concerns. 

“Can I trust you to keep this, Bambino?” Kylo is taken aback when instead of a swift stab he receives thinly veiled concern. 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly much to his own surprise. 

“How about I hold onto it until you make up your mind,” Cannoli must know that if Kylo really wanted to he wouldn’t need a knife to get the job done, but he has a suspicion there’s a misplaced protectiveness about this. Likely born from losing his own son to what Kylo can only assume was suicide. It causes a surge of emotion he’d almost forgotten himself capable off. 

“Yes, sir,” the somber atmosphere is heavy on Kylo’s shoulders. 

“My son was like you, only, uh…,” Cannoli stops, turning the knife over in his big hands and stroking the carved handle. Flip, stroke, flip stroke. “Only Vito couldn’t live with it,” Kylo feels like he’s privy to something not many people have seen. “You’re a good kid, Bambino, I don’t want to see you go the same way,” he finishes. 

“Yes, sir,” he’s levelled with a squinty eyed stare, his face being searched for any sign that he might go jump of the nearest bridge. 

“You’ve got a family now, Bambino, and we look out for each other,” the stiletto goes back in the pocket followed by a clap on the back that has his joints grinding together. 

Kylo makes his excuses the first chance he gets, slinking away after being laden with Tupperware full of homemade cannoli and instructions to eat them before the shells go soft. 

It’s peaceful in the dark, driving through the quiet suburbs towards the nightlife that is just starting to stir in the city. Kylo has always liked that twilight hour of city life, it brings him even greater joy to know that he’s become the bogeyman that stalks it, his reputation as Viviani’s bloodhound growing by the day. It makes him feel useful. 

For anyone else seeing the flashing lights of an ambulance fly by closely followed by the police might be a source of curiosity and nothing else. For Kylo it brings excitement. Hux. He doesn’t think twice about following the commotion to the three car pile up at a nearby intersection, keeping constant vigil for a shock of red hair. Joining the queue of cars waiting he’s ready to stay a while in the hopes that he’ll get lucky and someone kicks the bucket. 

He’s barely settled in before Hux rounds the crushed front of a sedan, gliding by the emergency personnel completely unnoticed. Before he knows it he’s at the police barriers calling out to get the reaper’s attention. Green eyes turn on him and Kylo could swear his heart skips a beat, an unrestrained grin splitting his face in response to that little flash of fang. 

“Are you always such a magnet for death, Ren?” That voice is like music to his ears. 

“So you do admit you’re drawn to me,” Hux rolls his eyes. “You can’t deny our attraction,” Kylo teases, wondering if he said something wrong when Hux’s smile slips away. “Hey, at least I didn’t do it this time,” the little quirk in Hux’s pale lips returns and a little ray of sunshine finds its way back into Kylo’s chest. 

“You’re like a natural disaster, I just can’t help myself,” Kylo should ask him out again, take him somewhere nice. Maybe they can go on a romantic walk somewhere? He likes to think they’re dating, Hux hasn’t turned him down once over the last month, the question is, does Hux think so to. Are they dating? Should he ask?

“I have some cannoli in my car,” he suggests, waving a hand behind himself in the vague direction of his idling car. 

“You sound like a predator,” Hux sneers, but follows him all the same. Back at the car Hux huffs at the stuffed cat in his front seat, staring deeply into its wobbly eyes, “I didn’t realise you were this lonely, Ren,” he says deadpan, one brow rising towards his hairline. 

“Shut up,” Kylo groans from where he’s twisted awkwardly into the backseat, reaching for the Tupperware that has, of course, slid into the furthest corner from him. 

“She looks like my aunt Millicent,” he snorts. The white noise of stations being switched fills the car, Hux always manages to find himself a classical music station forcing Kylo to sit and listen to Bach and Brahms for as long as he stays. 

A noise of triumph escapes him before he can think to curb it, the box of Cannoli finally in his hands. God, he hopes no one happens to look into this car at the moment as he’s all too aware of his ass more or less acting as a dashboard garnish while Hux is pressed to his hip and fiddling with the radio. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get quite used to how cold the reaper is, even through layers of fabric he can feel the cool press of Hux’s arm against his thigh. It’s horribly distracting. 

Flopping back into his seat with a grunt he flips the lid off the box and offers it to Hux first, Leia did teach him manners if nothing else. They sit in silence while traffic stands still, people in uniform rushing about scraping some poor bastard off their windshield. 

He knows it’s rude, but he can’t keep himself from mooning at the man in his passenger seat, studying every inch of his face, the way his jaw moves while he eats the cannolo, the little smear of ricotta at the corner of his mouth. Does he have to put effort into his appearance or is he just frozen in time, a picture of perfection forever and always? Kylo doesn’t care, Hux would look just as perfect ungelled and wearing a nightgown as far as he’s concerned. 

Did he have someone once? Was he married when he was still alive? He did the preliminary google search on General Hux and found next to nothing, just a portrait of the esteemed General A. Hux, the youngest British general to serve in the revolution, killed in action at the age of 34. He has since set the portrait of Hux in his richly decorated red and blue dress uniform uniform as the background on his new phone, but no one needs to know that. Especially not the man himself. 

People are rude, a fact of the world which he is so abruptly reminded off when there’s a sharp knock on the window. Who the fuck! 

Poe. Poe is who the fuck. 

Dressed in blues, gun at his hip, Poe looks every bit the stereotypical, handsome movie cop waiting expectantly for Kylo to roll his window down. “As I live and breathe, if it isn’t The Italian Stallion, thought I saw you over there, buddy,” always so damn charming with his perfect teeth and glowing smile, Kylo hates that he can’t manage to hate his old friend. “Just wanted to see if you were ok,” knowing Poe he’s entirely serious. 

“I’m fine,” Kylo growls going to roll the window back up, but Poe beats him to the punch and leans down on the window sill. 

“Nice car,” great, he’s trying to start a conversation. 

“New job,” being short has never really worked on Poe, but Kylo isn’t a quitter.

“Congrats, buddy! What do you do?” He’s entirely too enthusiastic for someone he hasn’t known in nearly 15 years. 

“Nudist yoga instructor,”

Poe takes it all in stride, not the least bit phased by Kylo’s dodging. “Who’s your friend?” Of course he can’t even be rude enough to ignore Hux. 

“The grim reaper,” Hux gives him a pointed look while Poe laughs him off. Kylo clutches the wheel silently convincing himself that strangling an officer of the law in public won’t do him any favours. 

Poe makes no effort to hide how he's eyeballing the cannoli sitting on the consol between them, Kylo very pointedly ignores him having no intention whatsoever of giving up his dessert. “They’re almost ready to let people through upfront, we should get together sometime, catch up,” it’s a shame Poe is a cop, otherwise Kylo might have agreed. 

“I’m busy,” the second Poe is off the window Kylo starts cranking it up furiously, he’s sure he looks stupid, but he no longer cares. 

“I never would have expected you to be friends with a policeman,” Hux cuts through the piano concerto on the radio. 

“Are we dating?” Now is perhaps not the time to ask, but the question is already out there, it’s too late to take it back. 

Hux actually looks surprised for a moment and Kylo fears he’s fucked it all up, then he smiles. “I suppose I could be interested in courting you, be aware I have nothing to offer, no money, no land. I’d make a poor husband in this state,” holy shit! Do they kiss now, or? What are the rules for dating a guy who died before indoor plumbing became a thing? Is smooching moving too fast? If nothing else he can at least stare as much as he’d like now. “I should like to write a letter to your parents to state my intentions and inform them of my standing,” What? It appears Hux has a lot to learn about modern dating. 

His cheeks are starting to hurt from the sheer magnitude of his grin, life really is starting to go more his way. For the first time in years things are looking up and to think what brought him here was one of the lowest points of his miserable life. God must have realised he was beating Kylo down just a bit too hard. Either that or The Devil is his new friend. 

Just like Poe said the line starts moving, creeping by the crash site like a queue of metal snails. Kylo stuffs his face with another cannoli when they inch past Poe much to the officer’s apparent dismay. Hux rolls his eyes at his pettiness, but doesn’t comment. Kylo is on cloud nine, he wouldn’t care if he ran over a civilian right now, he’d go to jail with a smile on his face ten miles wide.


	9. The Junk in my Trunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week Kylo is still a disaster.
> 
> Cw for violence, muder, and intention of drugging and non con
> 
> Enjoy!

Sometimes it’s nice to receive a phone call, to know that someone is thinking of you, or maybe you’ve won something. Then there are less convenient times like when you’re out on a hit with intentions to invite your undead love interest out for dinner. Times when you can’t help, but think, why me? This is exactly what’s going through Kylo’s head when ZZ Top starts belting out a riff from within his jacket. Now’s not the time.

The phone falls silent and Kylo goes back to his intimidation act, weighing up various items in his trunk, inspecting them in menacing silence while the traitor cowering on the floor behind him sweats in fear. He’s just decided on the aluminium bat when the opening riff of Tush reverberates through the empty warehouse again. Fuck! Now he has to answer it, his voicemail clearly stating that if it’s important call again.

He’s slightly taken aback when he sees Rose’s cheery contact picture lighting up his screen. She’s the one who insisted he get a new phone when she saw his cracked screen and scuffed casing, so he did. Went out and bought one of the new iPhones and let Rose program whatever she wanted on it. As a result he has an array of apps he barely knows what are, the only one he’s been forced to use being Snapchat because the sunshine waitress is an avid selfie taker who always demands a reply. If he remembers correctly she was going out tonight, dressed up and beaming, demanding he tell her she’s pretty. He sent her a reply of himself in his new Tom Ford suit and coat only to be told he looks like John Wick.

The phone rings a third time and he picks up not sure what to expect. “Can you come get me, please?” The first thing he notices is the hitched breathing and quiet sobs. Shit, this can’t possibly be good.

“What’s wrong?” If that piece of shit date hurt her he’s going to skin the bastard alive and make a nice throw rug for his mother.

“I saw him put something in my drink,” she’s whispering, a door opening and closing in the background, hiding in the bathroom he presumes.

Glancing back at his mark he makes a decision, “where are you?” The bat clangs satisfyingly as he knocks the fat fuck out cold, this’ll have to wait.

“Sky City Bar,” he knows where that is, thank god.

“I’m on my way,”

He makes quick work of stuffing the tied up man into his trunk, improvising a gag with an oil rag just in case he should wake up. Getting stopped by the police would not be ideal. All the same he’s pretty sure he breaks the speed limit on his way to Sky City where with a glimpse of his ring and the murderous scowl on his face the bouncer steps aside, no questions asked.

He’s never set foot in this building before, it being too high class for his tastes, so he can only assume it follows the typical bar layout with the bathrooms in the back. Luck is with him today it would seem, he finds the ladies room with no trouble and barges in despite the protesting women.

“Rose?” His voice echoes in the dead silent bathroom.

Rose emerges from one of the stalls, her tear streaked face in sharp contrast with her soft green dress. Kylo’s heart aches at the sight, nobody gets to do this to his girl. He’s going to set that creep on fire and roast marshmallows over his corpse.

“I’m sorry I made you come out here, but no one was answering and I didn’t know what to do,” with tears welling up in her eyes she sticks her arms up under his coat, burrowing into his chest like it’s the safest place in the world.

Not having much experience with being anybody's safe space Kylo does what he does best; standing around awkwardly until the hug is over and glaring daggers at anyone who looks like they might comment on his presence in the women’s room. “It’s fine,” It’s an awkward attempt at being less awkward, it doesn’t work. “Is he still out there?” Shifting the focus to something he knows how to deal with might make this easier.

“I don’t know,” the words are muffled against his chest, wet with tears.

“Want me to break his legs?” He’s well aware he sounds entirely too eager to pass it off as a joke.

“I just want to go home,” Rose isn’t stupid, she must know the kind of guys that frequent the Palermo. She has to know by now that Kylo isn’t a nice, boring tax accountant or even just a bit of generic muscle.

Generating a don’t fuck with me aura has become second nature to him, a necessity in a world with few social boundaries, an aura that makes people flee his path. It’s especially useful when stalking across a crowded bar to cave in the skull of the piece of shit Rose pointed out to him. The bastard has enough sense in his head to look scared when he sees the approaching thunderstorm, eyes flickering between him and Rose.

“You look thirsty,” leaving no room for discussion Kylo shoves Rose’s cocktail at the asshole, letting him know how it’s going to be. Unbelievably the guy is stupid enough to stand up, trying to intimidate Kylo in return despite the obvious fear in his body language.

“Do you know who my dad is?” He barks in desperation, shivering in his knockoff Gucci boots.

“Do you know mine?” Kylo parrots back at him. The thin stem of the martini glass breaks in his tight grip, the wannabe rich boy quakes in his boots. “Listen here, you fuck,” the guy squawks in pain, the edge of the high table digging into his spine, Kylo’s hand pushing him down with as much force as he can manage. “Either you drink this, or your daddy is going to have to cash out for a nice, big headstone to match your inflated ego,” he folds like a cheap lawn chair, taking the broken glass and chugging its drugged contents without further protest. “Call the police,” He tells one of the patrons standing nearby, let them deal with this asshole.

Stepping outside is a cool relief from the warmth and noise of the bar, already he feels less unhinged. Getting behind the wheel of his car is one better. Rose settles in next to him not seeming to be all that bothered about what she just witnessed Kylo doing. She’s probably still too upset to care.

“Sorry,” he apologises all the same, just in case.

With no clue where he’s actually going he pulls away from the curb hoping that Rose might feel better the further away she is from Sky City. She looks so small curled up in the passenger seat holding Millicent close to her chest. Being in this situation he can understand why people seem to care about him when he’s the one crying on the floor, that their motivation is less out of pity or a want for silence and more because of interest in his well being. It’s terribly strange being on the other side of it. Should he offer chocolate or something?

“Can I put some music on?” She beats him to the punch saving Kylo from making a fool of himself.

Maybe not, he re-thinks when she pops open the glove compartment and the first thing that appears is a gun. A gun that most definitely isn’t his. First thing tomorrow he’s going to scour this car for any more hidden surprises and hope he doesn’t find a smuggling compartment full of drugs somewhere as well. Next to the gun is a stack of money that is also not his and a hidden aux cord set up which is presumably what Rose was looking for.

“That’s not mine,” Kylo shifts his attention back to the road, cringing at the fuck up this is determined to become.

She just snatches his phone from the dashboard and plugs it in with no comment. At this rate he’ll have to buy her something nice just to make up for accidentally shoving his criminality in her face. “Why do you have this as your background?” She tilts the phone at him showing the painting of Hux.

“He’s hot,” it comes out sounding more like a question, it’s not like he can tell her he’s dating the man in the picture. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry, I could eat,” she clearly sees it for the dodging it is and from the looks of it she’s not going to let him go easy. Then again, if ribbing him helps take her mind off of things then so be it, he can endure some good natured teasing.

Kylo thought he was prepared for anything she could possibly throw at him, that is until the funky beats of YMCA starts building around them. The knowing smirk he finds next to him sets his face on fire, he never thought he’d regret putting all his music in one single playlist.

“Your gay is showing,” the deadpan delivery startles a laugh out of him.

By the time the chorus hits the mood has brightened significantly, they sing along off key and unrestrained. It’s so nice to not be judged for his unexpected taste in music for once in his life. People expect him to be a metalhead, with his long hair and fondness for black he can’t really blame them, but it’s nice to not get pigeonholed by someone he considers a friend. It really is very befreeing to be able to belt out a gay anthem together with a small Vietnamese woman while driving through Chicago at eleven pm. He’d break someone’s heart if he were seen like this, not sure who, but probably someone. Maybe his high school guidance counsellor who was so sure he’d amount to something respectable.

It’s during this that his dinner plans with Hux intrude rather rudely. One thump may have been passed off as a bump in the road, but further persistence leaves little doubt that there is a person locked in his trunk. Rose notices, of course she does, glancing back and forth between him and the backseat.

“Did you hear that?” Turning up the volume is the only thing he can think off to cover the sound, but then the guy has to start shouting. Why can’t his marks ever be polite? Surely he can hear that Kylo has company and should have deigned to keep his mouth shut a little while longer. Fucking needy asshole.

“Nope,” hopefully his attempt at innocence doesn’t look as deranged as it feels, “what’s your address again?” Rose is not one to fall for weak distractions, she’s just as stubborn as the guy screaming in his trunk.

It’s not long before he’s forced to pull over on an empty side street and use the meek excuse of needing a piss. This is how he ends up completing a hit to the sing along tune of Come on Eileen. He really should have seen the surprise attack coming, opening the trunk to a fist in his face, the bastard got loose. Blood gushes from his nose, his brain taking a second to catch up, a second during which his mark clambers out of the trunk and starts legging it down the street.

For a fat man he sure is fast, running like an Olympic medalist, Kylo hot on his heels. He won’t go down without a fight, credit where credit is due. Kylo is faster, his mark’s head colliding with the asphalt with an audible crack. The fight goes on, Kylo imagines this is comparable to riding a bull, but where his mark has a will to live Kylo has his orders and military training to spur him on. Using sheer force and what’s available to him he cracks the man’s skull on the pavement a second time, and then a third and fourth, keeping it up until the body beneath him stops twitching entirely and Hux is staring at him from the sidelines.

He very charmingly spits out a mouthful of blood, smiling at Hux with red stained teeth. “This wasn’t part of the plan,”

“Really, Ren,” exasperation colours Hux’s tone, green eyes rolling towards the heavens. He takes the offered hand pulling himself up off the ground and dragging the stoic reaper into something resembling an embrace. It last for all of ten seconds before Hux pushes him away a glare nailing Kylo to the spot, “don’t be inappropriate,” he can’t do much but snort at Hux’s outdated views.

“What the actual fuck is going on?” Much to her credit Rose doesn’t so much as flinch at the blood still dripping from Kylo’s nose and Hux’s ethereal presence. She does, however, grimace at the body between them.

Well, shit. Is the only thought Kylo can muster, this isn’t really a situation he can bullshit his way out of, no one is likely to believe him if he tries to say the corpse wasn’t his doing. Doesn’t stop him from giving it a go all the same, “That’s not mine,” the disbelief radiating from his two companions is so potent it almost counts as a third person. “Listen, I can explain this,” he tries again spreading his hands in a placating gesture that is entirely pointless given the circumstances.

Mind running a hundred miles an hour, scrambling to come up with a good reason why he had a man in his trunk, a man who is now dead, he glances at Hux in a plea for help. All he finds is poorly concealed amusement at the figurative ditch Kylo has dug himself into.

“You called at a bad time, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just walk away from this. I’ll give you anything you want, a new tv, a new car, a house!” Rationally he knows he can only afford one of those things, but he has to try, right?

“Anything?” He's in deep shit now, she’ll want the house.

“Anything,” the ditch is rapidly becoming a trench.

“Then tell me the truth,” she should have asked for the house.

“I can’t do that, I took a vow,” he's going to jail. “That’s the one thing I can’t give you. If I break that vow that’s going to be me,” Rose softens a little at that, the fight slipping out of her posture.

The coast isn’t clear, far from it, but the longer they all stay out here, congregating around a cooling body, the bigger the chance that they’ll be seen. It’s a risk he can’t take. Hux very helpfully gives him a hand with hiding the evidence this time, lugging the sack of lard back into the trunk. He should buy a hearse at this rate.

With the trunk locked Kylo is slightly more at ease, but there’s still the whole Rose situation to deal with. The situation that keeps getting more and more complicated.

A loud gasp stops him in his tracks, “It’s you, from the painting,” her anger has been replaced by confusion. “It’s actually him isn’t it?” She turns to Kylo, eyes wide in amazement.

“Ren,” a single word with such power Kylo has never experienced.

“I googled you,” he quietly admits, “I found your portrait, I have you as my phone background,” much to his relief Hux doesn’t look angry with him, more like flattered if anything. Kylo isn’t sure he could handle more yelling right now.

“It is exceptional work, isn’t it? A gift from my step mother when I made General,” Hux smiles wistfully, perhaps lost in his own memories of life.

“I like you better like this,” he forgets for a moment that they’re not alone, reaching out to run his fingers down a cold cheek. Hux sighs at the contact or perhaps Kylo’s sentimentality, whichever one it is it only makes him fall harder.

“Necrophilia is a disease, love,” the snappish comment takes him completely off guard, a freight train used to pop a delicate bubble.

For a moment the world stills, a perfect silence descending on the trio until it’s broken by Kylo’s laugh when his brain catches up to him. He really is fucked up beyond repair, isn’t he? They’d need to invent a whole new breed of psychiatrist to sort out the mess that is his brain, especially after this rollercoaster of a day.

Unfortunately for him laughing reminds him of his possibly broken nose, pain needling through his forehead quickly forcing him into a groan instead. “Fuuuuuuck,” gingerly prodding at his bruised face he diagnoses his skull to be intact when nothing moves in a way it shouldn’t. He’ll live, might look like a raccoon for a while, but he’s survived way worse. Besides, maybe the bruising will draw attention away from his scar.

He tries wiping some of the blood away, but suspects he’s probably just smearing it around, making an even bigger mess of himself. Hux sighs from where he’s leaned against the back fender of The Judge, untying the sash around his stomach with an air of inconvenience, acting like it’s Kylo’s fault that his blood is no longer inside his body where it belongs.

The reaper’s hands are cold and soothing on his bruised skin, wiping blood away with a gentleness Kylo doesn’t feel like he deserves. He relaxes into Hux’s grip, allowing his head to be tilted this way and that without protest. Rose shuffles awkwardly behind them, slipping away to wait in the car while Kylo loses himself in the gentle touch he’s been craving since he first laid eyes on the reaper.

Caught up in enjoying the moment his eyes slip shut and he nearly forgets the throbbing in his nose. Up until this moment he had no idea how much he needed this.

It’s over all too soon, though he knows Hux has been dragging it out as well, taking extra care to dry every stray drop. He’d like it to last forever, but they both know that it can’t. Even if there’s no more blood to clean Hux’s touch remains for a while longer, mapping out Kylo’s face under the yellow light of a street lamp, carefully tracing his scar from the neat line on his forehead to the gnarled flare at his jawline. There’s no hesitation in how he touches the silky skin, unafraid of the blemish that splits Kylo’s face. It’s strange to be touched there, no one ever has besides himself, startlingly intimate for such an exposed part of his body.

Hux’s exploration ends at his chin, slightly too sharp nails scratching at his newly grown goatee like you would a cat. “I like this,” the words are no louder than a whisper, closer than he expected them to be. If he leaned forward a bit would he be able to kiss Hux?

 

[](<a%20data-flickr-embed=)

 

Opening his eyes confirms his theory, Hux only a scant few inches away from his face. He steps back before Kylo can take a chance, letting go and breaking the spell, bringing them back to this dirty side street in the bowels of Chicago.

“I have to go,” Hux smiles softly, the tattoo on his neck lighting up like a candle flame in a dark room. In the blink of an eye he’s alone, the faint imprint of glowing runes in the air where Hux used to stand.


	10. The Father, The Son, and The Grim Reaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a tiny little easter egg in this one.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

Eating lunch at the Palermo has become second nature to Kylo, especially now that he’s doing everything in his power to keep Rose happy with him, having practically become the waitress’ private taxi service whenever he’s not busy with Viviani’s dirty work. He’s had more spare time lately now that the remaining traitors are on the lam, the capo responsible buried in the muck beneath a bridge. The family is stabilising, settling into its new hierarchy. Kylo is just grateful he hasn’t been assigned to a new capo, he likes Cannoli and those of his crew he’s met. What he likes even better is the fear and respect he’s earned during his run as family executioner, the uncanny ability to silence an entire room with his presence alone is useful. 

 

Lately he’s been running security and collecting tax from unwilling associates, following Cannoli around to learn the ropes. His rushed addition to the family skimped on his education and he’s paying for it now. If he isn’t driving Rose around it’s Cannoli directing him to one place or another with the occasional detour to have dinner with Anna and the kids. He hasn’t been this social in years, not even in the marines where the majority of his interactions were scripted and confined within rules and guidelines he never cared for. 

 

It’s overwhelming how much his life has changed, a few months ago his only contact in Chicago was Maz, now he’s become a regular at the Corsetti dinner table and a steadfast presence at the Palermo. Hardly a day goes by where he’s not wanted for one thing or another. If nothing else his lack of brooding alone in his apartment has helped push back his attacks, the exposure to others soothing his fears bit by bit as long as he avoids certain things. All in all he’s pleased with where he is for the first time since he can remember. 

 

However, dread sinks in his stomach when his phone rings, a name he hasn’t seen in a long time lighting up his screen. Three letters that can only bring bad news. 

 

“Dad?” He vacates the bar, forgetting all about his half eaten cannoli in favour of hiding away in a corner where he can gain some semblance of privacy.

 

“Hey, kid,” he’d like to say it’s horrible to hear that voice, but he would be lying. 

 

“Is mom okay?” Something has to be wrong. Why else would Han be calling him?

 

“Your mother’s fine, she’s right here,” hearing that lifts a weight off his shoulders, his heart rate calming. “I’m gonna put you on speaker,” there goes his heart again, jumping up into his throat. He’s done something and somehow his parents know. 

 

Poe. Poe told them, he must have. 

 

“Whatever Poe told you, I didn’t do it,” he starts defending himself before his mother can get a word in, if she starts talking he’s done for. 

 

“Poe? Poe has nothing to do with this,” She cuts him off, confusion heavy in her words. 

 

“Forget I said anything,” even across several states he can feel Leia’s need to dig deeper, pluck apart his rushed defence. 

 

“Who’s Armitage Hux?” Han cuts in, likely on the same track as Kylo when it comes to his mother. Hux? What the fuck has he got to do with any of this?

 

“Why?” How do they even know about Hux, it’s not like his courtship with the grim reaper is a public affair. All the murder required is not ideal. 

 

“He sent us a letter asking permission to court you,” Han scoffs. Oh no. No. He thought Hux was joking, that he couldn’t possibly know who Kylo’s parents were or where they live, he should have known better. “Is this some kinda joke?” Kylo wishes it was, desperately. 

 

Heaving a big sigh he thunks his head against the wall, immediately regretting it when his still bruised nose blooms with pain. “I’m afraid not,” the admission is weak, his words strangled with exasperation. “Hux is…,” What the hell does he even say to this? “Hux is special,” it’s nowhere near a good enough explanation, they won’t buy that. Who would? How would he even explain that he's dating a man who died nearly three hundred years ago?

 

“He’s…, old fashioned,” he struggles to think of any conceivable way to diffuse this situation and explain away his mysterious suitor, who in this day and age more than likely came across as an asylum escapee. 

 

“He’s something alright,” Han grumbles, at least he doesn’t sound mad, “gotta watch out for the crazy ones, kid,” a dull slap echoes across the line followed by more grumbling. Some things never change. 

 

“Why didn’t you say you were seeing someone, honey,” Leia takes over, he's really fucked now. When your mother is a politician there’s not a whole lot you can get away with, her skills in conversation allowing her to see through most of his bullshit. A skill that was a huge annoyance during his teenage years. 

 

“It’s new, we just started getting serious. I thought he was joking about the letter,” He really needs to have a talk with Hux about modern dating. 

 

“If he’s serious enough to write me a letter I’d like to meet him someday,” not this again, “why don’t you come up for Thanksgiving?” There it is. 

 

It breaks his heart how she never stops trying, but he can’t, can’t let them see him like this. “I wish I could, but I can’t get away from work, my boss is very demanding,” Viviani likely wouldn’t give a shit if he went up to Maine for a weekend, Leia doesn’t need to know that. 

 

“Why won’t you come home, Ben?” The pleading in her voice hits him somewhere deep inside, hurting him more than any bullet ever could. 

 

“You wouldn’t want to see me like this,” he quietly admits, choking on every word, unshed tears burning behind his eyes. 

 

He hangs up without further ado, refusing to let his parents hear him cry like the broken man he is. His phone rings again almost immediately, he declines it twice before they give up, slinking into the bathroom where he can compose himself in peace. When he finally makes his way back to the bar Rose brings him another cannoli without question. 

 

Shit. The first time he’s talked to his parents in months and it has to be like this. Damn it all to hell. They’ll call again, he knows they will, eventually he has to pick up. If he doesn’t they’ll call Poe because of his little slip up and have him tracked down which is easier said than done. Ben Solo is nowhere on record in all of Chicago, Maz saw to that, even the address on his licence is fake. 1060 West Addison, because Maz thinks she’s funny. 

 

Still, he’d rather not have a cop looking for him for any reason. He might be obscured on file, but ask any lowlife connected to the mob and they’ll tell you about Viviani’s bloodhound, the bogeyman of Chicago, Kylo Ren, death himself. Their fear of him can be dangerous as much as it’s useful. He’ll have to fess up, there’s no time to concoct a believable lie. 

 

He’s kept his face from them for so long his stomach churns at the thought of revealing it, of replacing the unmarred image they have of him in their mind. Logically he knew he couldn’t keep hidden forever, that sooner or later they would find out. Knowing that he can choose how to reveal himself does nothing to ease his mind, it would have been better had the choice been taken from him, now he has given himself time to worry himself into a pit of anguish. They’re going to wish they never saw him after this. 

 

Spending time in a bathroom taking selfies is not something Kylo ever imagined himself doing. He’d never even taken a selfie before Rose introduced him to snapchat and Instagram where she was his sole friend until the Corsetti women found out about his meager social media presence. Not a single one of the pictures turn out how he’d like them, either showing too much or too little, wrong angle, wrong lighting, unfocused, or just plain wrong. He doesn’t want to show it all, just enough to convey the message. 

 

He tries taking pictures of the scar down his neck, just the edge of his jaw, the tidy line across his brow. Nothing seems right and he’s taken what feels like a hundred pictures. Not a single one is good enough to show his parents. 

 

At this point he’s considering drawing a diagram to point out all his damaged bits because that would be easier. It’s all too tempting. 

 

He’s overthinking it, he knows he is. He could just tell them his face is ruined, but he knows he’ll choke on the words, sending a picture would be the simplest solution if only he could manage to take a decent one. 

 

In the end he sucks it up and wanders defeated back to the bar where he meekly requests assistance, giving as vague an explanation as he can manage. Rose, bless her heart, doesn’t dig any deeper, taking the picture and sending it before he has a chance to change his mind or even look at what she sent. 

 

Phone back in his own hand he stares at the picture she took. It’s taken at an angle his nose blocking most of the scar from view, showing enough to explain his reluctance. He tells himself it’s better this way. When it’s rings he switches it off. 

 

He hasn’t prayed with any meaning behind it since he was sixteen when he turned his back on uncle Luke and the catholic faith. Becoming a priest was never for him, it’s what his family chose for him in the hopes it would straighten him out some. That having a god to devote himself to would stop his delinquency. They were all wrong, religion felt like a vice to keep him in place, worshipping a god he barely believed in and preaching outdated ideals no one should follow. But now, as he sits here with his dead phone in hand he prays for forgiveness and strength. Prays that the god who abandoned him will listen and help him through this mess. 

 

The day goes on around him and nothing much changes in the city of Chicago. He goes out on his rounds with Cannoli like he does twice a week, collecting money to later be counted and passed up to the Don. It’s dull and repetitive, no one putting up any protest when they walk through the door. He almost wishes someone would so he can take his mind of his parents for a few minutes. 

 

“If it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Cannoli,” Bala Tik crows from his spot behind the counter, bag ready to be picked up. The scott is Kylo’s least favourite of their associates, always so insufferably smug, stinking of cigarette smoke and the filthy underbellies of the cars he chops. His fingernails are permanently caked with grease, torn and uneven,

 

He leers at them with beady eyes, stained teeth on display. There’s no one better at making things disappear, if there was Kylo suspects the little cockroach would have been in his crosshairs before too long. Just how he makes the people around him uncomfortable enough to spur the sentence on. Alas, he does as he’s told and pays what he owes. Making people’s skin crawl isn’t a good enough reason to break his legs. 

 

Kylo feels dirty just being in the vicinity of the man and his wandering eyes, he’s made sure to never be within touching distance. As the fates have it Cannoli leaves them alone for all of three minutes. A lot can happen in three minutes. 

 

“Why don’t you come closer, love,” he leans over the counter aggressively, perhaps expecting Kylo to yield to his  _ charms _ . He stays his ground, standing perfectly still, ignoring the dirty weasel cooing at him. “I’ll show you a good time,” the cherry of Bala’s cigarette glows bright, a cloud of rancid smoke blown in Kylo’s direction. 

 

“I’m gay, not desperate, I wouldn’t fuck you if you gave me a million dollars” is the total sum of words Kylo has ever spoken to the creep. 

 

Face twisted into an ugly sneer Bala hardens his posture. It’s pathetic, like watching a dirty sewer rat trying to take on a pitbull. The man barely has a chance to get started on his no doubt offensive tirade before Cannoli lumbers up behind him big hand cracking Bala’s greasy head on the counter. 

 

“Don’t talk to the missus like that,” he grumbles hefting the bag with their percentage and leaving the mechanic whimpering on the floor. “Next time you shoot him,” Kylo can’t stop the smile that escapes him. 

 

It’s two days before he switches his phone back on and then it’s only because Cannoli threatens to shove a tracker up his ass if he doesn’t get back on the grid. He has eighteen missed calls from his parents, evenly spaced with the most recent being this morning. There is something to be said about persistence. 

 

He’s been on the edge the whole time, itching for a target or any opportunity to release some of the tension keeping him stiff. Seeing Hux would also be nice. They really need to talk. Deep down he’s already forgiven the reaper, it’s not his fault he’s from a different time, he couldn’t have known. Still he’d like to explain some things and hopefully educate himself with what’s expected of him in all this. 

 

Staring at Hux’s portrait soothes him a little, it truly is a work of art. The man he knows as his boyfriend stands proudly, gloved hand resting on the hilt of his decorated saber, the vibrant red of his coat stark against pale skin. Kylo can’t get over how lucky he is to have this man in any capacity. What are the odds?

 

Opening his texts is a lot less harrowing than he expected it to be, of the five unread texts the first one is an unassuming,  _ *Nice moustache, honey.* _ It's just unexpected enough to summon a snort. The messages continue in that vein, not a single mention of his scar to be found. The last one is nearly an essay, a huge chunk of text full of info about Thanksgiving, an open invitation to come home. 

 

Locking his phone he puts it back on the side table, he needs to think about this. What are his parents doing right now? Is it possible that they somehow missed the huge scar bisecting his already uneven face? Jesus, fuck. He can’t go back to Portland like this, he’s a fucking wiseguy for crying out loud, his mom would notice in a heartbeat. Scar or no scar, his brand new suits and designer shoes are a blaring warning light to what he’s been up to, no way would someone living on army pension dress like he does, spoiled by the fruits of his labour. Not to mention the family crest he wears so proudly on his pinky. 

 

He can’t go home like this. He won’t. 

 

It’s strange to think he’s gone from being ashamed of his poverty to too well off to be believable. Fucking hell, if it’s not one thing it’s another. 

 


	11. Fuggedaboutit!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for dead bodies, brief mention of torture and anxiety.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I can’t believe you actually sent my parents a letter,” gunfire still ringing in his ears, demons from his past lurking in the dark, Kylo takes in the mess he’s made. Viviani has loaned him to a family friend, another Boss, that is slimy for lack of better words. Slicker than a greased eel in an oil spill. A decrepit old man with a lust for blood and Kylo’s gun to satisfy it. He doesn’t like it, but it pays and he’s been wanting to talk to Hux for weeks. 

God, he hates guns, he’s had more than enough of them, but even he isn’t reckless enough to take on three targets without one. Hux actually pouts. It’s brief, but it’s there. 

“The colonies are so uncivilised,” the reaper mutters, scribbling away on his forms. “You could have told me it’s no longer the custom,” he gives up the remaining paperwork to Kylo in favour of swinging his scythe in swift, elegant curves over the three bodies. 

“I’m not mad, it just put me in an uncomfortable position,” a nudging reminder winks at the back of his mind, one month till Thanksgiving, it says. “I have some family issues,” he can’t go, he reminds himself. 

“I can relate,” Hux steps over a body, Kylo stares at his long legs in those tight breeches, shapely calves enclosed in pitch black leather. “My father was a difficult man,” he toes a limp arm out of the way, closing the distance between them with one final stride. 

“How do you feel about Thanksgiving?” He's just curious, he won’t go. 

“You mean the harvest festival? You still do that?” It’s a stark reminder that Hux is old enough to be his great-great-grandfather. How has he managed to remain so far out of the loop for someone who spends every day flitting back and forth between here and wherever he goes when no one is dying. “Is it the one with the turkey?” Going by the tone of voice Hux couldn’t care less. 

“I prefer the pie, mom always overcooks the turkey,” every year, without fail, but for all her mishaps with roast birds she never failed to make the best pie. 

“My mother was a cook, she used to let me have the leftover candied peels whenever a cake was made,” a smile softens his face, vibrant eyes warm with childhood memories. “She was talented, it’s a shame my father was so obsessed with status that he kept me from her. I grew up thinking she was just a cook, I first learned she was my mother when she was on her deathbed with tuberculosis,” a wistful look takes him over, his head tips in mourning. 

“I’m sorry,” Hux shows no reaction to Kylo’s hand on his arm, lost in a train of thought far beyond what Kylo can relate to. It must have been lonely to watch the world move on. 

“No matter, my bloodline died when I did. A long time ago,” he scribbles out one last thing on his clipboard, tossing it and his scythe away with little care. “Shall we?” Kylo gets a giddy rush when he’s offered an elbow to hook his arm through, such a gentleman. 

Outside the street is as quiet as ever, his escapades having gone unnoticed by the public, there’s a Denny’s just down the road. Perfect. In that strange twilight zone of reality and purgatory no one is going to bat an eyelash at what looks like a wiseguy and his history buff boyfriend. People will assume they came from a costume party, at worst. It’s a step up from Burger King too. 

Introducing Hux to chain restaurants will never not be funny, the concept that there can be more than one seemingly lost on the reaper. It is understandable that someone from his time could struggle to grasp how connected the world is today, the ease of travel, and the ability to converse directly across vast distances. Some things he appears to just accept, like the radio, cars, telephones, things that you can’t avoid noticing, but somehow, some way, chain restaurants have eluded him for about a century. 

Hux scours the menu like it’s an ancient scroll holding all the answers you could ever want, making snippy remarks about how food has changed between questions about various items. He’s become a lot more talkative since their first stilted date over shitty coffee. 

“I’ll take you somewhere nicer next time,” Kylo leans back in his seat, a cop car cruises past. 

A waiter approaches them when Hux finally puts his menu down, they look tired, but smile nonetheless. He can’t imagine it’s much fun working the night shift at a Denny’s. 

“I don’t have high hopes,” the tricorn comes off, disintegrating into nothing as soon as it’s no longer in contact with its owner. There really is only one reason he hasn’t wined and dined Hux yet and that is his uniform, he doubts they’d be allowed in and he’s not sure if it would be rude or not to ask if Hux can change. 

Kylo gives him a wry smile, wishing he could kiss that little fanged smirk right off. “How did you find my parents anyway?” He steers the conversation away from his own shortcomings as a date to satisfy a genuine curiosity. 

“I can see your name and the exact time of your birth,” at Kylo’s confused look the reaper points above his head, “right there, Beniamino Organa-Solo, born 19. November 1988 at 1601 hours,” he rattles off. 

Pointlessly Kylo looks up knowing damn well he won’t see a thing, “that’s useful,”

“Quite,”

He successfully avoids the temptation of asking if his date of death is up there as well, instead he turns his attention to the loaded stack of pancakes being placed before him. Wasting no time he drowns them in strawberry syrup and watches Hux do the same to his, don’t have to count calories after you’re dead, he supposes. 

Watching Hux eat is creepy, he knows that, but just can’t help himself when the reaper keeps making such delightful faces. The pancakes get their approval in the shape of a small hum, a barely there head tilt, and quirked brows. A puzzled look flickers across his face when he catches Kylo staring, “What?”

Reaching over Kylo swipes a stray drop of syrup from a soft bottom lip, he's sure if Hux had a pulse he’d be blushing. “Just thinking about how pretty you are,” licking the syrup of his thumb is the closest he’s ever gotten to a kiss since he was 18, the fact that he knows that means he should remedy it. If Hux will let him. 

“Honestly, Ren,” Hux scoffs turning back to his pancakes with a pleased, little quirk in his lip. 

“I also want to suck your dick,” he says it mostly to see what reaction he’d get, but if Hux is amendable he wouldn’t hesitate to lend a hand. You can learn a lot in the marines, how to handle a cock is just one of many secret subjects he took. 

“You’re Italian, it’s not your fault,” the prim delivery breaks him in a flash, leaving him crumpled in his seat, trembling with laughter. 

“Fuggedaboutit!” Dragging up his best impression of Viviani he straightens his jacket and tie, adjusting his ring. It’s lost on Hux, but the reaper indulges him with a smile. 

“You sound like Al Capone, though he never took me dining,” Al Capone? Fucking hell. “I much prefer you,” something about being rated above Capone appeals to his Italian pride and he preens under the praise, who else does Hux prefer him to?

“Have you always been in Chicago?” Seeing as he has met Phasma he can safely assume there are more reapers and some sort of system. He fails to see any logic in why an Amazonian woman in full armor and a British revolutionary general should be in Chicago of all places. 

“Since its founding in 1883. Before that I was in Boston, I suspect I was moved here as punishment because I kept complaining about you colonists winning the war. Now I’m glad I did,” silver linings. 

“Me too,” it’s pointless to say, but he says it all the same. 

“Why are you here?”

“Hiding,” he touches a finger to his scar, following its silken path all the way down to his shirt collar, “I’m not the same kid that left Portland all those years ago, I couldn’t go home like this,” it’s only fair that he shares the truth in return. “I preferred my family not knowing, but I had to come clean when they got your letter,” in a roundabout way he’s grateful for it, being forced into confessing something that’s been eating at him for years. 

“I’m sorry, if I’d known I wouldn’t have sent it,” a cold hand encloses his own, he let’s go of his fork to return the hold. 

“I’m kind of grateful actually,” he smiles, wiggling their clasped hands a little. “They want me to take you home for thanksgiving, but I don’t think I’m ready to face them yet,” he’s scared, too scared to talk to his own parents, scared of the possible rejection. That same fear has been heavy in his gut since he woke in medical with his face cut up. Seeing part of something in a picture can’t ever compare to being faced with the real thing, the true extent of damage. 

“Do you want to go home for Thanksgiving?”

“I don’t know,” and that’s the truth. In all honesty he probably would, he could finally go home, eat at his favourite restaurant, see his family. He could go flying with Han like he used to, play chess with uncle Chewie, help his mother in the garden, all the things he left behind when he was shipped out. 

It’s all too easy to remember a time when his only problem was high school drama and whether or not he’d get caught sneaking out with Poe to various parties. He gave all of that up for what? A broken body and broken mind, a life of pain and misery at the beck and call of the Cosa Nostra when he could have gone to college and possibly been happy. 

When he signed up he never thought this is where life would take him. He thought he’d come back a hero, admired for defending his country, instead he got kicked to the curb, unwanted, nothing, but a burden on society. For all the preaching people like to do about war veterans they don’t actually want to keep their word. No one ever lifts a finger to help them because they expect someone else to do it. 

It doesn’t matter what he survived, that he watched his squad get tortured and killed, recorded like a snuff movie. Back there in that hot, concrete hell he was prepared to die, the US doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. He was going to die on a dirty floor, infected by his neglected wounds and he was okay with that, he’d done his bid. His squad all gone, waiting for their leader to follow. He was saved for last because of his rank, in the end that rank is what saved him, the rescue team arriving only hours before he was to be executed on film. 

He walked through the fires of hell and all they gave him was a new rank and a medal only to discharge him six months later when he wasn’t up to par, his injuries rendering him useless to the people he gave his life to serve. The realisation that he could never go home broke him even further, left him an empty shell wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city. If Maz hadn’t taken him in he would have walked off a bridge in the end. 

It’s almost ironic that he'd end up devoting himself to a General all over again. 

“You could always invite them here?” Hux suggests while absently stabbing at a piece of fruit. 

It’s a nice thought, but he doesn’t exactly live somewhere suitable for guests and the only Thanksgiving dinner he could make in his kitchen is the frozen kind you microwave. He wouldn’t submit his rich parents to that. He’s also fairly certain they think his living situation is better off than it actually is. With the money he has now he could easily get a bigger apartment, but that would mean leaving Maz, he could never do that. “I live in a broom closet, I have a bed and like four feet of kitchen counter,” if Hux is in any way disgusted by the information he doesn’t show it. 

“You could take them to that establishment you’re always at,” Hux is just trying to be helpful, he knows that, but if there’s one place in the world he’s never letting his parents set foot it’s the Palermo. There’s being stupid and then there’s openly inviting the enemy into your safe spot. 

“I couldn’t do that,” imagining that scenario is bad enough. “In fact, mom would probably kill me if she saw this,” pulling it off his pinky Kylo turns the ring over in his hand, studying the dragon on the crest and the elaborate floral design carved into the sides. It’s unmistakable who gave him this ring. 

“You are remarkably intent on punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault,” the words cut deep, it’s the same thing his assigned therapist used to tell him. 

“Fuck you, Hux!” A Denny’s is the last place on earth he wants to have a meltdown, “I should have died with them!” He's causing a scene, one of the staff shifting awkwardly behind the counter. “It would have been better for everyone if I did, then all of this would never have happened and a lot of people wouldn’t be dead,” the edge of the ring digs painfully into his palm as he clutches it in his fist, the urge to throw it at the infuriatingly calm reaper growing by the second. 

His jaw aches from how hard he’s gritting his teeth, he’s sure he must look positively murderous, but Hux doesn’t bat an eye. In the end he lets out a roar, kicking his chair as a weak replacement of something he could actually hurt. The employee at the counter is reaching for the phone and in a moment of blind fury Kylo pulls the gun from the waistband of his trousers, the phone is abandoned in favour of frantically ducking behind the counter. 

The dining room is frozen in silence when Hux steps in front of the gun laying a hand over Kylo’s pressing firmly until his beretta is pointed at the floor. Blood rushing in his ears, heart pounding against his ribs, Kylo breaks out in a cold sweat, breath getting away from him. “I should have died with them,” he repeats brokenly, words clotting in his throat. There isn’t enough air in the world. 

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Hux touches him so gently, carefully tucking wayward strands of hair behind his ears, each soft caress breaking him further. He doesn’t deserve this. 

When Kylo finally breaks and crumples into Hux’s waiting arms the reaper says nothing, wrapping him up in his cold embrace, holding him patiently while Kylo sobs into his chest.


	12. Bada Bing, Bada Boom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be smut.
> 
> Thank you so much to Abschiedamore for betaing this chapter and helping me with the porn, you are a lifesaver!
> 
> Cw for sexy stuff, and Kylo questioning reality and not in a good way

Usually when Kylo wakes up it’s to his own screams and he’s always alone, never has he been prodded awake by his own vibrating buttplug. To say he’s anything less than ashamed of the high pitched scream he lets out would be a lie. He hastily pulls his rumpled sheets up when he finds Hux perched at the edge of his bed studying the bright purple plug, pale fingers tracing each ridge with curiosity.

 

“What is this?” He glances over at Kylo nonchalantly, acting like his uninvited presence in Kylo’s home is perfectly natural.

 

Wait.

 

Who the fuck died?

 

“Overdose on the first floor,” oh thank god, he’s always been of the firm belief that Maz would outlive even him. “Your landlady let me in,” Hux fiddles with the remote in his hand until the plug changes settings, the low buzz hanging awkwardly in the air. Kylo’s not even going to question how Maz knew it was safe to let Hux into his apartment.

 

“You have several of these, but this one vibrates,” another change of settings and Kylo suddenly remembers what exactly Hux is playing with, quickly ducking beneath his pillow to cover his burning face. Oh god, please let this all be a bizarre dream.

 

Hux pokes him with the plug again, uncharacteristically impatient. “Buttplug,” he sputters into his mattress, “It’s a buttplug.”

 

“A buttplug?”

 

“Yup, I put it up my ass and it feels good.” This is not a conversation he wants to have, of all the things Hux could have found in his apartment it just _had_ to be his small collection of toys.

 

“A cock I can understand, but this?” Hux knows about dildos? Well, he won’t need to explain those then. What the hell would they even make dildos out of when Hux was alive? “It’s huge,” yes, that one is of a particular size, the prize at the end of the line.

 

He dares a glance from beneath the pillow and finds the reaper looking impressed. It bolsters his confidence enough to re-emerge from his hiding spot. “I usually save it for last,” he explains. “Aren’t you scandalised or something? You get pissy if I even try to hug you.”

 

“What’s inappropriate in public is insignificant in your bedroom,” Hux fucking smirks like the devil while very obviously tracing the shape of Kylo’s body beneath the sheets. What the actual fuck is going on? _Mr. Don’t get cosy in public_ is giving him bedroom eyes so intense he might actually melt from the heat of his gaze. He’s not awake enough for this.

 

“So I get to hug you now?” Idea already formed, he lunges before Hux can get a word in, pulling the reaper down into the bed with him. _Finally_ he gets to touch.

 

It’s a lot like he’d imagine cuddling a slab of meat from the butcher’s freezer would be, but Hux doesn’t protest so Kylo won’t whine about his lack of body heat. Rubbing his face into the back of Hux’s neck earns him an uncharacteristic giggle that warms his heart. The plug changes frequency again, the low, steady buzz turning into a rhythmic pulse.

 

“Do they all vibrate?” He sounds so innocently curious that Kylo can’t keep himself from falling that little bit further in love.

 

“No,” he smiles into ginger locks, “I have one that expands too.” Having Hux in his life has prepared him for having strange conversations, but this might be the strangest one yet.

 

Interest piqued, Hux turns to stare at him from over his shoulder, “Are you all so obsessed with your arses?”

 

Kylo laughs. Hux looks offended. “It’s next to the sink in the bathroom,” he’ll indulge his boyfriend in this, it’s not like he’s ashamed of it.

 

The fact that Hux crawls back into bed with him when he returns from the bathroom makes his heart grow in size. He could watch the reaper play with his sex toys for hours, just his expression as he turns the screw to make the plug unfurl is all too easy to get lost in. The knife sharp focus as he explores the simple mechanics of it. Though he does neglect to tell him the plug was up his ass only a few hours ago when he couldn’t sleep. Best not to push his luck.

 

For all he knows, Hux might have nothing at all flowing in his veins, leaving him incapable of getting hard in the first place. It would be a shame, not ever getting his ass destroyed by the grim reaper is a disappointing prospect. Still, he’d much rather have the man than his cock, functional or not.

 

Hux continues his fiddling, putting aside the plug in favour of rooting around in his other toys unaware of Kylo’s growing interest in the proceedings. Even if Hux isn’t interested in fucking him, he’s providing good fantasy fuel for sleepless nights when his hand alone just isn’t cutting it, but from how this is going his hand just might have to. Should he say something? What would he even say in a situation like this? He doesn’t want to push himself on Hux, but the throbbing between his legs is growing insistent that he do something about it.

 

He supposes he can just excuse himself to the bathroom and jerk off there, but that would mean crossing the room with his hard dick out in front of Hux. Normally he wouldn’t give a shit if someone saw him naked, his idea of modesty erased by years spent living in barracks and getting in the occasional circle jerk with his fellows. Still, he’d imagined that the first time Hux saw him naked would be somewhat more involved than a stiffy shuffle from his bed to the tiny bathroom. His life truly has become ridiculous.

 

He’s just started to sneak his way out of bed as casually as he can, slithering out from beneath his sheets, hips angled away, when Hux’s prim and proper accent stops him dead in his tracks. “Did you want a hand with that?” In that moment Kylo’s brain short circuits, his mouth drops open, and the only sound he can hear is the AOL dial up tone.

 

404: Kylo Ren not found.

 

Hux waits patiently for his reply, absently stretching a silicone cock ring, while outside tires screech, someone curses loudly, a train rattles by distantly.

 

Kylo is still computing, brain struggling to reboot.

 

“You..,” he swallows thickly, cock throbbing hotly at the building tension. “You don’t have to,” _if you don’t want to_ , is left unsaid, they both know it’s there.

 

“I wasn’t always a general,” some practices never die, he supposes.

 

“But we haven’t even kissed yet!” It’s strangely off-putting that he’s the one trying to be sensible for once, usually he’d just throw good sense out the window in a situation like this, but this isn't just anyone. Hux deserves better than this. Here they aren’t soldiers living in a war zone, happy to lend a hand while the probability of dying tomorrow looms ahead. This is different, different than anything he’s had before and he doesn’t want to throw it away like nothing at all. This is too special.

 

Hux’s mouth is strangely warm where he’s tugging on Kylo’s bottom lip with his teeth, he tastes like nothingness, like the void itself. Sharp and tingling. His breath is like ice, so cold it makes Kylo’s teeth ache. “I haven’t done that in almost three hundred years.” _Holy fucking shit_ . That was better than anything Kylo could have imagined. He’d expected it to be like kissing a corpse, not like _that_. Not like kissing something divine.

 

 _More_. He needs more.

 

The reaper is all too happy to let him in, giving as good as he gets and Kylo takes, takes as much as he can, until he’s vibrating with lust for the creature in his bed. “Do you want to fuck me?” He gasps out between wet kisses, tingling with sparks where Hux’s cold hands touch bare skin. “Or maybe you want to try some of those toys?” Boldly venturing forth, Kylo slips a hand under that regal uniform coat to palm the plush ass hiding there.

 

“Later,” Hux decides after eyeing the discarded toys with interest.

 

In a flurry of movement and black smoke Kylo suddenly finds himself splayed out on the bed with a very much naked Hux straddling his hips, surveying him like a battlefield to be conquered. Something in that intense look sets him on fire, compelling him to reach out and touch every stretch of bare skin he can reach, to pull Hux down so he can taste the unmarred skin of his throat.

 

He grinds their hips together eagerly in pursuit of some much-needed friction, moaning into Hux’s shoulder with little care of who might hear them. Let them hear, he’s having the time of his life; Hux seems to like it if his pleased smirk is anything to go by.

 

“Bite me.” Hux complies without hesitation, burrowing his face into Kylo’s neck, nibbling and sucking his way down to his chest, those little fangs leaving pinpricks of delicious pain in their path. “ _Harder_ ,” Kylo whines, getting what he asked for when Hux bears down on his left pec hard enough to draw blood and a startled shout out of him.

 

The reaper pulls back at the noise, a speck of blood smeared across his lips, green eyes wide in alarm like he never realised his teeth were that sharp. The bite mark blooms red, a morbid flower to remember this by. Kylo loves it, secretly hoping it will scar so he can keep it forever.

 

He’s so caught up staring at the bruising mark that Hux has to forcibly move his head to make their eyes meet. The concern in those sharp eyes sets his stomach aflutter with love, he’s sure his own must be nearly black with arousal. That smear of red still clings to Hux’s lips so he snatches it up with his tongue, chasing the taste of himself deep into Hux’s mouth.

 

Taking advantage of the brief lull Kylo flips them over, spreading himself across the reaper and pulling one of his arms behind him, silently begging to be touched. At the first cautious brush he tenses up momentarily from the cold before pushing back against the questing fingers. _Lube, where’s the lube?_

 

Fumbling through his bedside drawer he comes to a disappointing conclusion, he has no condoms, _because why would he, not like he ever gets laid_. If only he could punch his past self in the dick. “Can I get any STDs from you?” An awkward question he’d hoped he’d never have to ask anyone, but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

 

The withering glare Hux gives him is answer enough, he wants to defend himself, but eventually decides it’s not worth it and just hands over the lube with a sheepish shrug. How was he to know he wouldn’t get some extinct disease and accidentally bring back the plague?

 

“Are you always this terrible at sex?” Hux quips with a smile. Kylo is thankful he’s already flushed.

 

This time Hux’s hand returns without any prompting, slick fingers teasing his hole. Two fingers slip in with ease thanks to last night's activities, a third joining in before too long, soothing Kylo’s ache to be filled. The reaper takes his time, stretching him out and massaging firmly at his prostate until he’s been reduced to a groaning mess arching off the mattress and clutching at the sheets.

 

When he finally relents Kylo is on the verge of tears, gasping for breath from being kept on the edge for so long. Hux finally pushing into him feels like a blessing, the stretch just right as Hux bottoms out with a deep groan that goes right to his cock. He spares a brief thought to how fucked up this really is, how he ended up with a reaper’s dick up his ass when his mother wanted him to become a priest. The absurdity of it all lost in the pleasure of being filled to the brim, punched out of him at the first thrust.

 

While Hux isn’t very vocal, restricting himself to low groans and quiet words of praise whispered in his ear, Kylo easily drowns him out with his own vocal performance, wanting Hux to know how good he makes him feel. It pays off, Hux listening to ever gasp and moan, adjusting until he’s hitting the spot each time, effectively reducing Kylo to a moaning mess.

 

He’s so close, barely hanging on, all he needs is that one little bit more to send him careening of the edge. Pushing back, he tries to meet every thrust, rhythm becoming sloppy the closer he gets. _Nearly there_ . “ _Please,_ ” Hux gives him the final push, that sharp contrast in temperature enough to draw the orgasm out of him after only a few strokes.

 

The reaper follows after fucking him into near oversensitivity,those slim hips stuttering against his own, a brief shock of cold as he’s filled startling an embarrassing squeal out of him. _Holy shit_ , is about the only thought he’s capable of forming as Hux flops down next to him, leaving him with a moment to catch his breath, body singing in the aftermath of the best fuck he’s ever gotten.

 

“How are you so good at this?” His mouth feels like a stretch of road in mid-July, his tongue too lazy to keep pace with the words. And here he was thinking Hux would be reserved like those period romance heroes.

 

“Maybe you’ve just never had good sex.” Fair point, the majority of his sexual experience consists of rushed fumbling and teenaged awkwardness with a couple of good fuckings sprinkled in. Maybe he’s just forgotten how good it feels with a partner as opposed to his toys.

 

“I think you broke me,” come seeps out his ass, leaving him with the strong urge to take a shower, if only he could move.

 

Next to him Hux looks infuriatingly perfect, not a single hair out of place or a drop of sweat on his forehead. Kylo can’t find it in himself to be mad about it when the reaper presses a cold kiss to the bitemark he’d left behind. To counter it he heaves a deep sigh and uses the momentum of his body to flop himself onto his own personal ice pack, much to Hux’s sputtered protest. He could go for a nice nap right about now.

 

Alas, Hux won’t let him, rolling him out of bed with hardly any effort at all and manhandling him into the shower where he’s left to contemplate life and death under a stream of lukewarm water. Philosophical shower complete, he feels a lot more functional, ready for a day of running errands for Cannoli. But first, breakfast.

 

Finding Hux still lounging on his bed is a pleasant surprise, he would have expected him to have been summoned away by now. Yet there he is, naked, ancient, and the most beautiful thing Kylo has ever seen. He is literally fucking a cryptid. At least his fragile mental state is good for some things, he’s not sure a healthy person would be able to deal with this.

 

_What if he isn’t?_

 

Stricken with sudden doubt of his own shambling sanity he freezes in his hunt for underwear. _He hasn’t been imagining all of this has he?_ Maybe it’s all just some insane death fantasy while he's bleeding out in that dirty alley where they first met, maybe he never even left Iraq. _No...no, nononono,_ **_no_ ** _, this_ **_has_ ** _to be real, it has to be._ He’s suffered too much for it not to be, right? _Right?_ No death fantasy would ever involve this much pain, no, he’d be happy with his family, unscarred and unafraid, not this.

 

_Right?_

 

It would explain so much though, why no one else can remember Hux, even all the things Hux is capable of. If reapers do exist then why hasn’t he seen one before, why wasn’t there one when his squad was dying around him? Hux is likely just a figment of his lonely mind, made up so he’ll feel less insane. An excuse for becoming a hitman.

 

His knees tremble, threatening to give up on him, he throws out a hand to steady himself on the wall, stumbling sideways when he connects with air. Cold arms encircle his ribs, lowering him to the floor with the support of a solid chest behind his back. Or maybe he’s imagining this too.

 

“Breathe for me, Ren,” he lifts a hand, pressing down on his tags, fighting against the constriction of his anxiety to press the hard metal against his palm with each breath. A solid point to anchor himself to. Something real.

 

“Please tell me you’re real,” voice breathy and cracked he sucks in a deep breath he can’t hold onto for as long as he should.

 

“I’m real,” that soft voice states clearly, “I promise.”

 

_And Kylo believes._

  



	13. Holy Cannoli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit happens.
> 
> CW for blood, gun violence
> 
> Enjoy!

The thing about gunfire is, as used to it as you get, it never stops being terrifying, each bang sending a spike of fear coursing through him as he tackles Don Viviani to the ground while Cannoli returns fire. His boss safe Kylo pulls his own gun squeezing the trigger to bring down the driver. A fucking drive by shooting, what a way to start the day. 

 

A bullet whizzes past way too close for comfort, he can hear it hitting the brick facade of Viviani’s house with a sharp crack. Next to him Cannoli ducks to avoid another one. One more bullet fired and the danger has passed, they’ve won. This time. 

 

Phasma whispers into existence by their dead attackers, waving at Kylo disinterestedly while she scribbles on her clipboard. Heart racing he turns to offer the Don a hand up only to find Cannoli slowly collapsing like a camping table under too much weight.  _ Fuck. _

 

Never in his life has he had to call 911 for anything, but sirens are already approaching and he’s not willing to count on it being an ambulance. Help summoned he turns to the bloody mess that is his mentor and friend. He caught the bullet in his chest and the blood trickling out his mouth would suggest a punctured lung,  _ fuck _ . 

 

Viviani is already at his side pressing against the wound with no care for his expensive suit, the sight forces Kylo out of his trance and he approaches to take over thinking it best he leave Viviani to handle the police. It feels like an eternity before someone guides him away, an eternity of watching his friend slowly bleed out. He can’t do this a second time. 

 

He’s vaguely aware of an orange blanket being wrapped around his shoulders, someone talking to him in calming tones while the ambulance vanishes down the street. All he can focus on is the blood on his hands, burning on his skin like acid. 

 

Eventually the voice buzzing around him resolves into words, “Ben, are you hurt? Talk to me, buddy.” Of course it’s him, who else would it be?

 

“I’m fine,” he lies, “I need to go to the hospital.” Poe is nodding understandingly, hauling Kylo up from the sidewalk. 

 

“I’ll take you there myself when we’re done here,” he’s steered into the backseat of a squad car, door left open to give him a false sense of security. It’ll be a fucking miracle if he doesn’t get arrested for this. Viviani better pull some tricks out his ass on this one for all the shit Kylo has done for him in the name of the Cosa Nostra. 

 

Surprisingly Poe does as promised asking some very carefully worded questions while his partner, Finn, navigates the streets of Chicago. Kylo denies everything related to the family, just like Cannoli taught him. They’ve only been loitering in the waiting room for twenty minutes when Viviani swaggers in wearing a clean suit looking like he didn’t just watch his capo get shot. 

 

“Ey, Mrs. Cannoli, how’s the husband,” he smiles, but it’s empty, Viviani is just as worried as he is. 

 

“In surgery.” Finn and Poe watch their hug with interest from the coffee machine. There’s no doubt they know about his connections now, no random civilian would hug Cesare Viviani with such familiarity. 

 

“He’s a tough bastard, he’ll pull through if he knows what’s good for him,” the Don smooths down his lapels and adjusts his ring, “Anna’s on her way, the kids are in school, let everyone else know, see if anyone knows anything.”

 

Kylo is grateful for the distraction given to him and he suspects Viviani gave him something to do so he wouldn’t be left to his own thoughts. He finds a bench outside where he can start spreading the news in relative privacy. He can’t bring himself to sit. Five phone calls in he’s paced the length of a nearby flowerbed 57 times and unwound his braid in order to nervously play with his hair. 

 

Two more capos are heading this way the rest out on a crusade for justice, it shouldn’t be hard to find who ordered the hit. Maz is the last person he calls, saved for last simply because he wanted to spare her the worry a little while longer. 

 

He doesn’t want to put his phone down, but there’s no one else to call after Maz yelled at him for not calling her first, Poe has been watching him since loop 34 and he knows he’ll be approached the second he’s off the phone. Poe is the last person he wants to do the righteous cop routine with because he has the added bonus of knowing about the stuffed Bigfoot Kylo kept in his bed until the day he left, as well as his love for shitty sequels. Ben might be dead, but Kylo Ren shares the same past. A past Poe was the center off for a long time. 

 

“Why this, Ben?” Defeat and a want for understanding radiates off him, “Why throw away your life like this?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” just deny everything, a strand of hair catches on his ring coming loose with a small pinch. An apology sits heavy on his tongue until he reminds himself he doesn’t owe Poe shit, he wasn’t there when Ben needed him twelve years ago, why should today be any different. 

 

Back inside Anna has arrived, crying silently, drenched in a grey pallor where she’s sat in a plastic chair. Kylo hates it here amongst all the charged misery, the who’ll make it who won’t question hanging like a dark cloud overhead. He’d rather be anywhere else, but he knows he won’t leave. He’d like to cry, but he doesn’t do that either. If he knew this would happen when he woke up this morning he might have just stayed in bed. 

 

So they wait. 

 

They’ve become a sizeable gathering by the time Anna lifts her head uttering a watery, “The kids.” She’s already shakily rising to her feet before Kylo can guide her back down. 

 

“I’ll pick them up,” any excuse to leave here for a while. 

 

The taxi driver keeps glancing at him in the mirror where he sits, silently rubbing at his bloodstained sleeves. You can hardly see it in the black fabric, but the blood has dried leaving it stiff and scratchy, rust coming off when he rubs at it. He’s itching to get it off, then maybe he can pretend his friend isn’t fighting for his life in an operating room. 

 

Clean suit on, all traces of blood gone, it doesn’t make him feel any better, neither does the reliable growl of The Judge. He tries to imagine he’s just running an errand, that he’ll pick up Lou and Val like he’s done before, detour for donuts on their way home. He tries. 

 

Forcing a smile feels like too much effort, he does anyway thinking it must look more like a grimace than any version of happiness. 

 

“Where are we going?” Val pipes up from the back and he’d like to tell them he just wants to try a new donut place, but they should know. 

 

“Dad’s in the hospital,” he only notices his slip up after it’s too late. No one mentions it and Kylo thinks maybe that’s for the best. 

 

The waiting room is just as depressing as when he left, smelling like hospital coffee, nervous sweat, and antiseptic. One thing has changed though, something he never expected to see in this scenario, something he doesn’t want to see. 

 

_ Hux.  _

 

The reaper sits with military poise next to Maz, looking incongruous in the whitewashed waiting room, like a black hole. He springs to his feet with unusual urgency darting up to Kylo and grabbing his face with no concern for who’s watching. Hux tilts his head this way and that, brushing his hair back and opening Kylo’s jacket to quickly pat him down. Checking for injuries he realises. 

 

“When I saw them here, I thought,” and then he’s being kissed, cheeks, forehead, nose, lips, desperate, fluttering kisses drifting across his face like frozen butterflies. 

 

“I’m fine,” he buries his nose in ginger hair breathing in the sweet, metallic scent that clings to his reaper. 

 

Maz catches his eye over the rim of her coffee cup smiling knowingly, it seems him and Hux have caused a temporary distraction from the drama at hand. Kylo couldn’t care less, not when he has his boyfriend held close to his chest. 

 

A nurse brushes past them close enough to touch making him realise that maybe they should move out of the way. He sequesters himself back in between Maz and Anna pulling Hux down into his lap with remarkably little protest so he can keep clinging to something solid while they wait.

 

And wait. 

 

He’ll survive, a doctor informs them at long last, by the skin of his teeth, but he’ll make it. Viviani was right. 

 

A tsunami of relief washes over them, the tension draining away with the flood of emotion, a collective breath being released. It'll all be okay. Even Hux looks relieved that he won’t be doing his job this time. 

 

After a while they all migrate down to the cafeteria to occupy two full tables and eat questionable food. Food that according to Hux is just as bad as the hardtack they ate back when he was alive. “No wonder so many people die here, Ren.” surprisingly Hux being an asshole is what cracks the hard shell growing around them, a few chuckles spreading through their group. 

 

Sitting her like this, surrounded by friends and family picks at a deep rooted ache in his heart. He makes a decision right then and there. 

 

Excusing himself he returns to the bench outside, fumbling his phone out and hitting call before he can lose his courage. Vaguely hoping she won’t pick up he paces nervously. 

 

“Ben?” Hearing her voice, so full of hope, gentle and caring, soft in his ear as if she’s trying not to scare him away. 

 

“Hi, mom.”

 

“Oh, baby, are you okay? Do you need anything? Do you have enough money? I’ll send you some just in case,” for a little while he’s content to just listen to his mother’s worried rambling, basking in the familiar warmth. 

 

“I don’t need anything, I’m fine,” keeping his voice calm and level is a challenge when he’d like to do nothing more than cry. 

 

“I know you, Ben. What’s wrong?” What’s wrong is he could have died today. He could have died and never seen his parents again all because he’s been so scared they wouldn’t love him anymore. 

 

“Something happened today and it made me realise a few things, mainly how stupid I’ve been,” he takes a deep breath, “I can’t come home for Thanksgiving, but I’m sure I can convince Maz to make room for two more at her table if you’re interested?” 

 

“Your father and I would love to come see you!” The first tear escapes at the outburst of sheer happiness, the magnitude of which leaves him floored enough to slump down onto the bench. “I’ll get the tickets today, where are you?” The realisation that he’s never even told them where he is hits hard, a second tear joining the first. 

 

“Chicago,” he chokes out, glad that if he has to cry in public he’s at least somewhere it could be excused. “I live in a shitty old building, I’m pretty sure my landlady is psychic, I have PTSD, and I’m madly in love with a man who dresses like a revolutionary war reenactor.” He tells himself this jumbled confession is so his mother can change her mind if she wants to, in case he’s not good enough after all, but he knows what he really wants is to get it all off his chest. “My face is fucked up, my side has a hole in it, and I have anxiety attacks almost every day, sometimes I don’t even know what’s real anymore,” the tears are flowing freely now, words intermingled with wet hiccups and weak sobs. 

 

“I’m not Ben anymore, he died on a dirty floor in Iraq,” someone having a smoke by the door glances at him with pity. 

 

“I still love you, honey, you’ll always be my little boy,” she sounds on the verge of joining him in his hysterics, voice roughened with age and emotion. “I should have been there more,” the guilt is near palpable. 

 

“It’s not your fault, I was already fucked up,” with his disastrous family it really is a miracle he turned out as well as he did.

 

“It was never your fault, Ben.”  _ Wasn’t it? _ He was the one acting out, he was the one who left, who refused to follow in his uncle’s footsteps. In the end they were both to blame for the disintegration of their relationship he supposes. Maybe if they’d both tried a little harder he wouldn’t be sitting here crying on a bench twelve years later wishing he could hug his mom across the line. 

 

Soon, he reminds himself. Two weeks until Thanksgiving. Fourteen days he can count down until he gets to put his arms around Leia again, see if she still wears that same perfume, that ever present blue bottle sat on the vanity table in the master bedroom. If he closes his eyes he imagines he can smell the soft scent over the medical stench of the hospital. 

 

When he eventually makes his way back inside Hux is gone and everyone else has the decency to not mention his red rimmed eyes, they turn back to their smalltalk and cheap coffee like nothing is wrong. To them maybe there isn’t, but Kylo has seen people die from less, all he can do is hope that the doctor is right. 

 

Maz looks up from her outdated, worn magazine when he folds himself into the low seat next to her, she takes his hand unprompted. It never fails to amuse him how tiny she is compared to him, delicate, wrinkled hand nearly vanishing in his own, dark skin a stark contrast to his own. Maz has always been a caretaker and likely will be until the day she dies, a day he never wants to witness. He can’t believe how lucky he was that she saw something in him worth saving when he couldn’t. 

 


	14. Mr. Mom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end guys!
> 
> cw for anxiety, PTSD, and some mild blood
> 
> Enjoy!

“Hey! Bambino! You’re burning the bacon.” How Anna deals with this every morning he’ll never understand, the last week has taught him patience he never knew he needed and a new level of respect for his own mother. He never should have agreed to this thinly veiled babysitting job, but when your capo’s wife asks you to do something you do it. 

 

Val is right though, the bacon is well on its way to burnt. 

 

“Fuck,” when he signed his soul over to the Viviani family he never once imagined he’d end up cooking breakfast for a pair of teenagers. It’s not the kind of responsibility he was prepared to handle. He still thinks this is a bad idea after nearly 9 days of taping himself together, even taking the pills Viviani’s doctor prescribed him, so he won’t have a breakdown in front of Cannoli’s daughters. So far so good, but he’s being stretched thin as it is, bursting at the seams with coped up anxiety. He’s a ticking time bomb waiting to blow. 

 

Staring at the burnt bacon is enough to make him want to cry, either that or throw the whole frying pan out the window and into the pile of snow he shoveled off the driveway yesterday. He’s a hitman with a wardrobe full of Tom Ford and Louboutins, if he knew he’d end up shovelling snow he’d have been a bit better prepared for it. Never let it be said he’s a quitter, he has the bruises to prove it, but damn it if he didn’t get the job done, he’ll just have to hope Hux will be gentle with him the next time he can lure the general into bed. 

 

In the end breakfast ends up mostly salvaged, it’s not his worst attempt yet since Lou still braids his hair for him while he hoovers up his own pile of food. No, his most disastrous attempt at food was the oatmeal you could spackle a wall with. That day they stopped for breakfast at McDonalds. 

 

You learn a lot of useful things in the marines, unfortunately cooking isn’t one of them. 

 

No fast food today just a solid helping of feeling horribly out of place amongst the put together parents dropping off their children, he suspects someone will call the police if he sticks around for too long. They haven’t yet, but he’s not taking any chances. 

 

Next stop is the hospital where he can make sure Anna is okay, pick up his daily list from Cannoli, and report on the state of the household. He very deliberately doesn’t mention the burnt bacon, why admit to his own failures when the girls will rat him out anyway? He’d rather not be present to witness Anna’s resigned stare at his lack of housekeeping skills outside of scrubbing things within an inch of its life. 

 

“They’re letting me out tomorrow,” Cannoli mentions casually, thank god, he can finally go back to crying himself to sleep at night as opposed to burning through all his energy and then some with Cannoli’s weights. He still wakes up screaming most nights, but if the girls can hear him they haven’t said so. 

 

“Just in time for thanksgiving,” two days until his parents get here, it feels so surreal. 

 

“Do you have any plans?” Anna pokes gently. 

 

“I do, actually, I invited my parents down,” he realises a little too late how that might sound to Cannoli, it’s never been much of a secret who his mother is, easy to find for those that know his name, he can only hope he’s trusted enough that they won’t take him for a rat. “I haven’t seen them since I was eighteen,” eighteen and mad about all the wrong things. 

 

“There’s always room at our table if you’d like,” he’d love that, his entire family together, new and old, but the risk isn’t worth it. Leia will know the second she sees him and he’d better not put the spotlight on anyone else. 

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Anna’s face falls and if he was slightly more forward he’d give her a hug. “My last name is Organa if that clears it up,” understanding takes the place of disappointment, there’s not an Italian in America who doesn’t know that name and the crusade attached to it. He’s not sure exactly how much Anna knows about her husband's work, but going by the basement of her hair salon he’d guess she knows enough. 

 

“You’re still welcome at our table if you change your mind,” She reaches out resting her hand on his shoulder, stroking reassuringly. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being amazed by Anna’s kindness to him. 

 

“Thank you,”

 

Nervous anticipation keeps building throughout the day and he’s desperate for some kind of release almost wishing someone would pick a fight over their protection tax. They must sense his tension. As a result he lets out an explosive burst of road rage instead on his route to the Palermo, he’s ever grateful for Rose’s ability to ignore his bullshit while he’s shouting every curse word in every language he knows at the many vehicular morons they encounter on the twenty minute drive. You’d think they’d be better at driving in the snow in fucking Chicago. It doesn’t make him feel a lot better, he’d still like to break something and he’s not picky on what. 

 

Dinner is no more of a success than breakfast was, less actually when he couldn’t restrain himself and bent the spatula in half, they migrate to the Palermo for pizza. He’s learned to ignore the stares as he shovels down a large one by himself along with a plate of garlic bread and three cannoli for desert. He’s always been a generous eater, but now he suspects he’d impress even uncle Chewie if he ever gets the chance. 

 

Teenagers don’t sleep, he can’t help, but wonder if he was the same. Music drifting down the hallway way later than it should be, he’s too wired to sleep himself so he just stares at the ceiling and listens. Tomorrow evening he’ll be picking up his parents and he still can’t quite wrap his mind around it, he even took the time to clean the trunk of his car, removing evidence of all the awful things he’s done. The baseball bat in the backseat meticulously cleaned of blood, no zip ties and tape in the glove compartment, a proper spring cleaning. All that’s left of his day to day life is what he wears, taking that off would feel too much like cheating so he won’t, he’ll just have to hope Leia doesn’t know the meaning behind his ring, who he belongs to. It’s a weak hope. 

 

The guest room feels cold and empty around him, still unfamiliar and strange, the sheets too soft and fresh. Twisting and turning, his scars pull tight in the cold night air, damaged muscle sore and achy like they always get this time of year. Painful reminders of past failures. 

 

It’s snowing again, shadows drifting past in the strip of moonlight splitting the room, fat flakes he’ll have to shovel in the morning. A door opens, footsteps padding down the carpet. This house is so quiet compared to Maz’s building, no rattling pipes or creaking wood, as much as he likes it here he can’t wait to have his own bed back. 

 

He falls asleep eventually, tossing and turning as nightmares take hold. 

 

He wakes screaming in phantom pain, choking on blood and sand. Soaked in sweat and fear he clambers out of bed and into the hall, trying to escape the visions that haunt him. They follow him downstairs and out into the backyard where he stands in burning snow, crying and gasping for breath, begging the cold to freeze his ghosts away. 

 

Heart slowing down, adrenaline wearing off, he sinks to his knees, flopping down into the snow letting the cold cover him. He stays there on the ground until a light flicks on next door, taking it as a prompt to make his way back inside before someone calls the police. Hands and feet numb he strips down to his soggy underwear just inside the back door, dropping his sleep clothes in the sink to deal with later. When he’s no longer shaking like a leaf and jumping at nothing, when his scars don’t feel like open wounds, wet and itchy, and he’s no longer in danger of puking if he moves too much. 

 

Milk, there’s milk in the fridge, warm milk will help, it’ll have to. Fumbling through the cupboards in the dark he manages to wrap his frozen fingers around a mug well enough to pull it off the shelf, but not to keep it in his grip. It’s bounces off the counter breaking at his feet the sound loud enough to still his heart for a second and pain to flare up in his side. 

 

“Fuck!”

 

Okay, clean up first, warm milk later. Once the light is on everything seems less cold and haunting, squinting at the sudden brightness he shields his eyes while shuffling back to the counter promptly stepping on a stray shard from the mug. The urge to scream is strong, but he manages to contain it to a string of curses while snatching up the dishrag from its hook and hopping to the breakfast table by the bay window.

 

That’s where Lou finds him. Wet, cold, and bleeding. 

 

She pokes her head through the doorway surveying the scene before letting her body follow. “I heard glass breaking,” She sounds too awake for that to be what roused her, has he woken her every time he’s had a nightmare?

 

“It’s fine, go back to sleep,” he’s well aware he looks a mess, still shivering and wet from the snow, this isn’t something a sixteen year old should have to see. No one should have to put up with this. 

 

Just when he thinks he’s alone again, carefully picking at the stray shard imbedded in his foot Lou returns throwing a quilt over his shoulders. “Your tits are distracting,” she crouches next to him brushing his hand away and pulling the glass out before he can protest. “Vito used to have nightmares just like you,” the confession is quiet, almost a whisper. 

 

He doesn’t know much about their brother, he’s never asked as it’s not an easy thing to broach. He doesn’t know much, but he knows enough. 

 

Feeling guilty about his own fucked up mind he watches Lou sweep up the broken mug wrapping the quilt tighter around himself and trying to pretend this is normal. The pretending fails, but heat is slowly returning to him and for once in his life he’s self conscious of his state of undress. 

 

Lost in his own mind he drifts, the hiss of a gas burner serving as white noise to help block the echoes of missiles and screaming casualties. A steaming mug thumps down on the table in front of him, tea sloshing over the rim, in that moment Lou looks so much like her mother it’s scary. 

 

“Just go back to bed, please,” he sighs, begrudgingly wrapping his hands around the warm mug. “I don’t want you seeing me like this,”

 

“What, in your underwear? Because, dude, you have nothing to be ashamed of,” she brushes him off determined to make this pity party a two person event. 

 

“You’re worse than your mother.”

 

She snorts watching him absently scratch at his goatee as if she expects him to bolt any second. “Have you never had a sister before?” The spoon clicks against the sides of her own mug as she stirs in a heap of sugar. 

 

“No,”

 

“Well, get used to it, Bambino, because now you have two,” she takes a slug of her tea immediately losing her bravado when it burns her mouth. He can’t help, but laugh as his self proclaimed sister curses and fans her mouth. She levels him with a patented Morricone glare for all of five seconds before cracking a wry smile. He’ll be alright. 

  
  



	15. Wiseguys Finish Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.
> 
> CW gun violence, blood
> 
> Enjoy!

Today is the day, anxiety sits heavy in his stomach eating away at his soul. In less than an hour he’ll be seeing his parents again, he’ll be hugging them for the first time in over a decade. The thought hits him so hard he almost has to pull over to avoid killing himself. He feels woefully unprepared. 

 

Putting on his best suit and letting Anna trim, shave, and braid him to perfection did nothing to eases his nerves. He’s a mess on the inside and has no doubt that it shows. Not even Rose’s encouraging snapchats succeeded in making him feel better. This whole thing can go one of two ways and he knows which one he’d prefer, but also which one feels more likely. Seeing a picture is not the same as seeing it in person. This entire thing is going to determine his whole future and he doesn’t feel ready in the slightest. 

 

He really wishes he didn’t have to do this alone. 

 

He’s too nervous to go inside, pacing the length of his car in the parking lot, chewing at the end of one of the three braids Anna so lovingly did for him. What if this all goes wrong?

 

Man, he should have whacked someone before leaving so Hux could hold his hand through this. He’d really like to hold Hux’s hand right now.

 

Leaving seems like a good idea, he could just drive away and hide, tell his parents that something came up. It’s a dumb idea. Fortunately it’s cut short by the sound of a rolling suitcase and like an idiot he steps out into the middle of the lot to see who it is and time stands still when they round the corner. 

 

His heart drops to his stomach, his legs locking in place, there’s no mistaking them for anyone else. Han is the first to spot him standing there like a deer caught in headlights, he nudges Leia and now they’re all three standing there just staring at each other. Tears are already burning behind his eyes, but he manages a weak smile, giving a little wave when he can’t think of something to do. 

 

He really should have brought Hux for this. 

 

In hindsight it was stupid of him to let down his guard, he should have known better, should have heard the approaching car. He would have if he’d been a little less taken with his parents, a little less overwhelmed with forgotten emotions. But he doesn’t, not until it’s too late. 

 

“Ey, Mrs. Cannoli!”

 

The first bullet he doesn’t feel, the shot echoing through the parking lot, the second knocks him back a step, the third brings him to his knees. Tires screeching and screams fade out into white noise as the pain hits him. 

 

_ Fuck. _

 

“Ben!” Arms come around him before he can tip over, pulling him back into a soft chest. She does wear that same perfume. 

 

“Mom, Dad,” pain lances through his gut and he realises he’s going to die here. It’s over. 

 

Han grips his hand with bone breaking strength as if he holds on tight enough Kylo can’t leave. “Hey, kid,” there it is, that lopsided smile. Kylo cries. 

 

He thinks as he lays there, choking on his own blood, that it’s all bullshit. His life doesn’t flash before his eyes, there’s no light to follow, any heavenly beings, no pearly gates or the gaping maw of hell. Death is frighteningly boring. All he can focus on his his parents above him, the pain and anguish he sees there, fresh tears dripping down worn faces. There’s nothing peaceful about dying.

 

It hurts knowing he’s caused this for so many people, that he stood by and watched it happen, enjoyed it even. He was only following orders and doing his job. He doesn’t regret any of it, but if he’d known dying was like this he would have been kinder in his methods, eased their passing as much as he could.

 

His parents keep talking until their voices fade, until everything turns grey and dark and the last thought he can manage is that at least he’s dressed for the occasion. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god there is no MCD in this fic. I'll post the next chapter on sunday to ease the pain.


	16. Death Becomes him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are then, I'm kinda sad to see this end, but I do have another long fic in the works so I'll be back before too long. I hope you all enjoyed this for what it's worth, not the greatest fic out there, but I had fun writing it and that's what matters.
> 
> cw, death
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> p.s: there will be a short epilogue on friday

After almost three hundred years of doing a job you get good at it, Hux considers himself a model reaper. He’s performed to the best of ability since day one and never once has he felt a hint of emotion for the souls he’s collected. 

 

Until that day. 

 

He knew it was inevitable, Kylo wasn’t going to live forever, but he was going to grow old and grey, not die on the dirty ground of an airport parking lot. Not like this. He was supposed to die better than Hux did, peacefully and without pain.

 

No, Hux hasn’t once cried for any of the people he’s collected, he still hasn’t. He couldn’t stand to collect Kylo, he just couldn’t. For the first time in his existence he couldn’t let someone go. He didn’t collect Kylo that day, he recruited a new reaper. 

 

Never in a million years did he think he’d ever get attached to anyone alive or dead, but something about the hope shining in Kylo’s dark eyes that night in the alley made him say yes. It was a bad idea from the start, one of the dumbest decisions he’s ever made, yet it turned out to be the best. 

 

He shouldn’t have kept saying yes, not while knowing his presence alone could push Kylo’s fragile mind over the edge. He wouldn’t be the first to lose his grip at gaining knowledge of the supernatural and life after death. But that stupid boy with his crooked smile and big, warm eyes wormed his way inside to Hux’s cold heart one murder at a time. By the time he caught on to his own feelings it was too late to stop it and look where it got him. 

 

Pain isn’t something he’s felt in a long time, he’d almost forgotten what it was like until he came to collect a soul and found Kylo bleeding out in his mother’s arms. 

 

He knew then what being in love meant and by god if he was going to let death take it away from him. 

 

—

 

Attending your own funeral is a strange experience, it reveals a lot about the people around you, about your impact on the world. He himself didn’t get much of a funeral, lumped into a mass grave with the rest of his men. Kylo’s funeral looks like royalty in comparison with his shining, black casket draped in the American flag, with the dressed up soldiers and their rifles. He can’t fault Kylo for crying, all he can do is offer his support as they watch from a distance. 

 

The turnout is impressive, it’s the first thing Kylo remarks upon, when they arrive. People he never expected to see again coming all this way to cry as his body is being lowered into the ground, how both his families are there and no one is fighting. 

 

They watch in silence as everyone says their goodbyes, until Kylo’s parents are the only ones left at the graveside. 

 

——

 

When Hux suggested they go to his funeral Kylo thought he was joking, but here they are. Here he is, watching people he thought no longer cared mourning over his empty body being lowered into a ditch. He’d like to go closer, to tell everyone he’s okay, but Hux won’t let him so he’s forced to watch from a distance as the unflappable Maz cries into Viviani’s shoulder, as Rose clings to her sister, and Cannoli, Anna, and the girls hold hands and pray. Worst of all is watching his family, all the people he hasn't seen in over a decade coming out to pay their respects. 

 

It’s the most painful thing he’s ever done. 

 

When his parents are the only ones left Hux finally relents and lets him go citing that they won’t remember him anyway. 

 

“I’m sorry,” it’s the only thing he can think to say hesitantly reaching out to wipe Leia’s tears. 

 

“It’s not your fault, baby,” she replies without hesitation pulling him close. It’s strange hugging his mother in this body, this unfamiliar copy of the empty husk laying in the grave by which they stand. In a way he’s glad he’ll never have to see that body again now that he’s rid of all the aches and pains it carries. 

 

He’s free at last. 

 

Han watches them looking more drawn and grey than Kylo has ever seen him, as if he's aged thirty years instead of twelve. It’s his fault, he knows this, his fault for being such a rebellious son with a penchant for chaos. It was insane to think he’d live forever as Viviani’s bloodhound, but he’d hoped it would last longer than it did, that he’d get to make amends with his parents before they reached this inevitable conclusion.

 

“Just had to join the mafia, huh, kid?” Han huffs a smile looking like Kylo’s affiliations are about as unexpected as trees in the forest and drunks in a bar.

 

“They gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Detangling himself from Leia he invites his father into a hug. 

 

A touch on his shoulder pulls him back to reality, Hux standing at his side. He’s no longer cold like ice. “It’s time to go, love,” He reaches for Kylo’s hand ready to lead him away. Taking one last look at his parents Kylo turns to follow, letting Hux take him to wherever they go next.

 


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who have been here from the start and everyone who joined underway, thank you for sticking through this, I hope you've enjoyed it.

Dirty work is what this is, Cannoli has never much enjoyed this part of the life, but he does what’s needed no matter the mess. A quick and clean execution, single bullet through the head, no pain.

“Hey, Cannoli,” That voice, it can’t be, but as he turns he finds Kylo standing there looking like he did when he left the house that day, a gleaming scythe in his hand, ivory carvings along the base of the blade. Just like that damn stiletto.

“Am I losing my mind, Bambino, is that what this is?” He’s seeing things, has to be.

Kylo laughs, absently swinging his scythe back and forth like an impatient child. It’s good to see him smile like that, it never quite reached his eyes when he was alive. “That’s debatable, I was already insane when I met Hux so I wouldn’t know.”

“It’s good to see you again, Bambino,” Kylo’s skin is ice cold when he reaches out to touch, but he’s solid. He’s lost two sons now, but at least this one gets to live on in some way and that soothes the ache in his chest.

“How is everyone?” Maz is the same she’s always been, but her age is starting to catch up to her after one tragedy too many. Anna still mourns weeks after they put Bambino in the ground and he thinks he probably shouldn’t mention the new picture up on the family wall both in their house and at the Palermo. Rose still forgets Kylo is gone from time to time, cutting herself off just as she’s about to ask where he is.

“They’re alright, getting by like we always do,” he decides to gloss it over for Kylo’s sake. “Lou’s taking good care of your car,” she loves that stupid thing with its souped up engine and chrome details. “We all miss you, Bambino,” but maybe he’ll be seeing him again now that he’s on duty.

“You won’t be rid of me that easy, Old Man,” now that’s more like it.

**Author's Note:**

> Congratulations! You’ve made it this far, well done. I hope you’re enjoying yourself. 
> 
> A bit of info you may or may not care about:
> 
> This fic doesn’t really have one spesific plot as it’s much more focused on various aspects of Kylo’s life within the Cosa Nostra and his relationship with other people, the world, and his decaying mental stability. I swear to god it does have a happy ending so no worries. 
> 
> As for accuracy I’ve done a fair bit of research, but I’ve also taken some liberties so take it with a grain of salt if you will. 
> 
> There are a few things I’ve left unanswered and not elaborated on on purpose since this is from Kylo’s POV and he’s just a soldier in the ranks and has no reason for knowing these things. But I do! So if there’s something you wanna know just ask!


End file.
